


Someone to Love the Both of Us

by emperors_girl



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Charles, Bottom Charles, Charles You Slut, Erik has Issues, Kid Fic, M/M, Mpreg, Mutant Road Trip, Past Child Abuse, Phone Sex, References to spousal abuse, Sex Education, Sex Toys, Unreliable Narrator, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 122,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8006824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emperors_girl/pseuds/emperors_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the nursery, the baby is still crying. Charles leaves Erik where he sleeps and goes to pick up the child. They'll both be gone by the time Erik wakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charles

“Erik, love, be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable,” Erik snaps back. “You're the one who's talking nonsense."

Charles sighs. He's known this fight was coming for ages, but that's no consolation. He'd used to enjoy their fights – a part of him, anyway. It's always been sort of... sexy, how intense Erik can get. But that was before: before he’d had David, and before their lives became so difficult. It's sexy no longer, just wearying. Charles is very weary of this.

“This is what's best for David, love. Surely you can see that.” Erik can't, of course, not for himself. He's never been through this, but Charles has, and there ought to be enough trust between them for Erik to take him on his word alone. But whatever trust was once between them has been slowly evaporating over these past five months since the baby was born.

Charles tries to explain it. Again. “He's just too young. He can't handle the telepathy yet. He doesn't even understand it. We have to put a mental block on his power until he's a bit older. He _needs_ us to do this, Erik.”

“Absolutely not,” Erik says, and Charles feels him repressing the urge to stamp his foot like a child. “I forbid it!”

Charles feels his left eyebrow rising. “You _forbid_ it?” he repeats slowly. Who does Erik think he is? “Is that right?”

Erik knows he's stepped over the line, Charles can tell by the mental shuffling, but outwardly he stands his ground. “That's right. I forbid it. You will not do this to our son.”

“You are _not_ the master here,” Charles says through clenched teeth. “You don't get to make proclamations and expect them to he obeyed. That is not how this works, Erik, and you damn well know it. We are married. We have a son. We do not make unilateral decisions about his well-being.”

“No?” Erik snarls. “Is that not what you're doing right now? You've made the unilateral decision to turn our son into a- a-“

He breaks off, hands clenched. He's too angry to get the word out, Charles realizes, and he skims the thought from Erik’s mind.

"Human?" He asks, and scoffs. “That is not how genetics work, my friend, and even if it were, so what? Is it better to have our son in pain than to have him human? Could you really not love a human child? Are you so petty in your anger that you would deny our son the only thing he asks from you because he does not fit in the _superior_ mutant lifestyle you've created for yourself?”

“Enough!” Erik barks, and the lights flicker.

Up in the nursery, Charles feels the baby wake. David feels their anger and Charles senses what's about to happen a moment before the cries start over the monitor.

Charles turns to go to him.

“Don't you dare walk away from me,” Erik says, and the ferocity in his voice makes Charles whip back around.

“The baby is crying!” he says, incredulous. “I'm not just going to let him cry so we can continue this pointless argument.”

“He's fine,” Erik says. “You coddle him.”

“I _comfort_ him! I protect him."

_Something you can't do_ , Charles thinks, but he's not petty enough to say it. He's seen Erik’s shattered expression when the baby won't calm for him. Another reason for this block on his telepathy.

“You'll make him soft. How do you expect him to make his way in this world if all you ever do is coddle him? Let the boy cry. It'll toughen him up.”

Charles feels a chill down his spine. “He's a child, Erik.” He says quietly. “He's not a soldier. He's not you.”

Erik flashes all of his teeth in a sneer. “No, he's all you, isn't he? Every last bit of him, and it's all you.”

The venom in his voice makes Charles flinch. “I'm going to him,” he says, and takes a step back.

“I said stay!” Erik shouts, and his head's such a jumble of hurt and confusion and anger that Charles doesn't see what he's going to do until Erik’s fist connects with Charles's cheek bone. The force of it knocks him back another step, and he remembers it all at once: Kurt and Cain and his mother when she'd had just enough to drink, and the boys on the playground who knew he was an easy target, too weak and helpless to fight back. For a moment, all he can do is breathe through the absolute terror.

But the terror is imaginary; he's not helpless now.

He draws himself up, takes a breath, and looks Erik in the face. Erik looks shocked, frozen, not breathing. His hand is still raised, clenched into a fist.

“Sleep,” Charles commands at once, and he can hear the steel in his voice.

Erik topples over, dead asleep.

Charles looks down at him, boneless and sprawled on the floor. He loves this man. He'll always love this man. He's going to leave this man. He's going to do it tonight.

He brings a hand up to his right cheekbone, site of impact. It's not broken - he knows what that feels like - but it throbs. There'll be a hell of a bruise, he thinks absently.

In the nursery, the baby is still crying. Charles leaves Erik where he slumbers and goes to pick up the child. They'll both be gone by the time Erik wakes.

xxxx

Charles is twenty minutes out from Allentown when his phone rings.

“Hello, Raven, love,” he says by way of a greeting. He hopes he doesn't sound too terribly much like he's been crying. His hands had mostly stopped shaking by the time he'd loaded the baby and their things into the car, but it had taken him ages to get himself together enough to actually turn the key in the ignition. His throat still hurts, even now, and his face is a pounding throb of dull pain.

“Charles,” Raven says, voice cracking, and he feels very certain she _has_ been crying.

Oh dear. She must have found his mess.

“Charles,” she says again before he can work out how to explain what he's done. “Something's wrong. Erik, he's passed out on your living room floor and the baby - Charles, the baby is gone!”

“He's with me,” Charles says, and he wishes she was there with him as well so he could project calmness at her. Hell, they're not so very far apart (73 miles by his count); it's a stretch, but he siphons a small amount of the calm he's keeping on the baby and reaches out to touch Raven. And yes, there she is, the familiar shape of her thoughts. She's in the nursery, David's nursery, the one Charles had painstakingly coaxed Erik through decorating. Erik had made the mobile himself, all shiny silver elephants and zebras, and Charles wishes for a brief moment he could feel the metal the way Erik does. His cheek throbs and the moment passes. He gives Raven the calmness, and withdraws, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Where are you?” Raven asks, and the fact that she doesn't even sound annoyed about him using his power on her is a measure to how worried she'd been. “What's wrong with Erik?”

“Ah,” Charles says carefully. “Well, it's rather difficult, you know. Erik and I, we're taking a bit of a break, as it were.” 

Raven is silent, so he continues.

“A bit more than a break, maybe,” he admits. “The baby and I are going away. An adventure, if you like.”

“You're going away,” Raven repeats slowly. “You're on a break. Charles, what the hell? Are you leaving him?" Her voice goes up an octave and Charles winces.

“Yes,” he says, and that's that.

“And what about me?” She asks acidly. “Were you even going to tell me? Or were you just going to walk out of my life too? How long were you planning on being gone: a week? A month? God Charles, were you ever planning on coming back?”

“I hadn't thought it through!” He snaps, and she laughs meanly.

“This is just like you, you know that? Classic Charles, can't stand people disagreeing with him so much he'll uproot his entire life to get away. Or are you going to pretend this isn't like Oxford? I guess I should just be grateful you didn't leave the country this time. Am I even going to be able to find you this time, or are you going to be such a coward that-“

“Raven, he hit me.” He says it quietly, but he knows from the way her voice fails that she hears him.

“Oh,” she says at last. She knows what it means to him, this one thing. “I'm so sorry.”

_Me, too_ , Charles thinks but doesn't say. “I wasn't leaving you,” he says instead. “I'm _not_ leaving you. Whenever I get something set up, I'll call you. It won't be forever, I promise you that. I just need some time away. I can't let this happen all over again, not to the baby and- not to me, either.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding shaken. Charles sends her more calm, but she brushes it off.

“I'm fine,” she tells him. “Don't worry about me. I assume you're the one keeping Erik out cold?”

“It had to be done.” He sounds defensive, even to his own ears.

“When will it wear off?” She's trying to sound casual, but there's an edge. She's probably going to give Erik a piece of her mind once he's woken. It's painful to think about, so Charles just _doesn't_.

“Another three hours, I'd say. That's the limit of my range, I'm afraid.”

“He's going to come looking, you know. I hope you changed cars, left all your metal here.”

“I did,” he says, looking down at his wedding ring. _Almost_ , he adds silently. Erik’s range is much more limited than Charles's. He'd have to be within twenty miles to sense them out that way. And if he gets that close without Charles sensing him, well, he deserves to find them, in that case. He'd meant to take the wedding ring off before he left the apartment, but... that hadn't quite worked out.

The baby starts to fuss and Charles signals for the next exit. “I've got to go, darling,” he tells Raven. "David's getting hungry."

“Right,” she agrees. And then, softly, “Be careful, Charles."

“I will,” he swears.

“And if you need me, Charles, for anything at all… you call me. Promise me.”

Charles promises, and they say their goodbyes.

The baby starts to cry in he backseat, and Charles sends him all the love he has in himself. It's not enough; the baby keeps crying.


	2. Erik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternately titled: Safe Little Mutant Interstate Town

Erik knows where he is long before he opens his eyes, even if he doesn't quite know how he got there. He's on the living room floor, face up and largely unhurt. His knees and elbows ache vaguely, as though he’d landed hard on them when he went down. But he's had worse. He can still feel the metal tingling all around him – the cast iron pans and stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, the zoo mobile in the baby's room, the poker from the fire. That last one is currently being held above his head by someone with the heavy electrical energy of a shapeshifter.

“Raven,” he says coolly, and opens his eyes. “Were you really planning on attacking me with _iron_? That was very foolish of you.”

“Not so much,” she says easily. Her mouth is drawn tight and her eyes are burning. Erik doesn't know when he's ever seen her look this angry. Gently, carefully, he takes control of the poker and sends it back to its stand by the fireplace. He watches it clang lightly against the dustpan there.

“The poker was just the distraction,” Raven continues, and Erik whips back around. Sure enough, she's got the wooden baseball bat from the front closet upraised, poised to swing. “Give me one reason I shouldn't break your jaw.”

Erik opens his mouth to ask her what on earth he's ever done to her. But then. Oh, then. He remembers. He doesn't know why it didn't come to him before, except that it must have been the lingering remains of Charles's power threading through his mind. But now – now he remembers perfectly.

“Oh _Gott_ ,” he hears himself say faintly. He might be sick. “What have I done?”

“You know exactly what you did, you bastard,” Raven growls.

Slowly, gingerly, Erik sits up. His upper back throbs with the movement. In his younger days he could have taken that fall with no problem, but 27 is apparently past the point of no return on that front. He feels the familiar surge of anger at the pain – and at himself for what he's done. He needs to see Charles, and he needs to do it right now. He has to explain, and beg for forgiveness.

“Where is he?” he asks. Charles isn't in the house, or at least his wedding ring has gone. The baby's room is filled with snaps and zippers on sleepers, but none of them are pressed against a warm body. Charles is gone, and he’s taken the baby with him.

“Like I'd tell you,” Raven scoffs, and her hands shake. Erik braces himself for the impact of the bat, but she just readjusts her grip.

“Is he at the university?” The most obvious place would be Raven’s apartment, but as Raven’s here with Erik, that probably isn't the case. He stretches his senses out, trying to feel. It's not far from here to the campus, just a few miles and well within his range, but doing this is always harder in the city. His consciousness wades past subways, cars, people with cell phones and piercings. He's looking for one piece of jewelry out of millions, but it’s the one he knows more intimately than any other – the one he made himself.

It's all wasted effort; Charles isn't on campus.

“Maybe he's gone upstate,” he says, more to himself than to Raven. The manor is outside his range, but he can call. Charles will be angry, he reasons, but Erik will apologize and that will be that. Charles will forgive him; Charles always forgives him, even when he really shouldn’t. Charles will come back and he'll bring the baby, and Erik will keep his stupid traitorous hands to himself.

He never thought he'd be that type of man, the kind who hits the people he loves. He would murder anyone who ever dared touch Charles. Charles is too noble for his own good – not weak, Erik’s felt his power and knows how strong he is. But he won't protect himself, either, not when it would hurt someone else. Not even when that someone deserves it. That's why Erik is by his side: to teach a lesson to everyone who deserves it. But this time… this time it's Erik who deserves it.

That's decided then. He’ll call Charles and beg him to come home. And Charles will come. He always does. Erik is not a good person and he’s done terrible things, but Charles _always_ forgives him. He will this time, too. Erik just needs to make the call.

But first, there's something he needs to take care of.

He looks up and meets Raven’s angry eyes. “Hit me,” he says.

She swings.

 

xxxxx

 

“Can you tell me what happened here?”

Erik is in pain. Erik is angry. Pain always makes Erik angry. He knows what Charles would say if he were here: Erik’s arm is broken, and that may be a good reason to be in pain, but it's no reason at all to be angry. Charles wants him to be less angry. Charles wants Erik to be happy.

Charles is not answering his cell phone. Erik is _not_ happy.

“Sir,” the doctor says again. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

What happened is, Erik got what he deserves. If Raven had any mercy, she would have broken both arms and smashed his head in; that's what Erik would have done, in her place. But Erik does not go about his life expecting people to have mercy. He learned the night his mother died just how merciless the world can be.

The doctor narrows his eyes. He's not a telepath, that much is clear. Erik’s family is made up entirely of telepaths, and he knows what it feels like when someone's in your head. But if the man’s not reading Erik’s thoughts, that means whatever Erik's thinking is written in his expression. He schools his face.

“Baseball accident,” he says, and challenges the man to question it.

He doesn't.

It takes thirty minutes of waiting before they have an X-ray machine free, and then another twenty minutes afterward for the X-rays to be read. Only one bone broken, they determine, and it's a good break.

Either Raven wasn't trying hard enough or she was trying too hard.

Erik refuses their offer of pain killers while they plaster his arm. He wants to feel this – he relishes it. Besides, he needs to think, and he can’t do that with drugs fogging up his mind. If Charles won't answer his phone, Erik will just have to go to him. It will be nice to get out of the city for a few days anyway. He’ll call into work and let them know about his _baseball accident_. They'll be sure to give him the long weekend after that. Then he’ll drive to the estate and confront Charles face to face.

No, not _confront_ , he scolds himself. _Beg_. He'll beg for Charles’s forgiveness. And Charles, gentle gallant Charles, he'll forgive Erik. He'll be disappointed in Erik, of course, but Erik’s long accepted he’s the type of person who disappoints the people around him. But Charles loves him anyway, and that's why he'll forgive Erik.

xxxxx 

 

After the cast is finally dried and the doctor is satisfied that his arm is on the path to mending, they give him a prescription for narcotics and tell him not to drive. Erik tears apart the script and turns his car out of the city. It's a little over an hour drive to the estate, and Erik keeps himself occupied by practicing his apology. Apologizing doesn't come easy to Erik, he's too much of an asshole for that, but he can usually manage to cobble something together that will pass Charles's inspection. And besides, he's paid his dues for this wrong - they'll never be even, not after how unforgivable Erik's actions were, but he's paid in pain for his mistake and that will count for something.

As he gets closer to Westchester, he reaches out mentally, searching for Charles's mind or his wedding ring. He gets nothing in return. Probably Charles is still mad, he thinks. He would reach out for the baby instead, but the David's powers aren't really developed enough for that, and besides, it would only make the poor kid cry. Erik doesn't know why David hates him so much, but thinking about it only makes anger and frustration churn in his stomach, so he puts it out of his mind.

Erik still hasn't gotten an answer from Charles by the time he pulls up the long drive to the estate. He doesn't bother going around to the garages, just stops near the main door and parks. He doesn't see his husband or son anywhere, and it's still possible they're inside somewhere, but he doesn’t sense their metal or their minds. He’ll admit he’s starting to have his doubts.

“Oh,” a voice squeaks, and Erik turns to see a tiny woman in servant’s uniform standing just off to the side. She's holding a lit cigarette, but puts it out quickly against her shoe as he watches. “I'm so sorry, sir,” she says and fidgets. “We weren't expecting you. Will Doctor Xavier be joining you? And the little one?”

“Charles isn't here,” he says, and it's like a penny dropping. A penny he can't seem to move, no matter how hard he tries.

“No, sir,” she says. “We haven't had anyone in residence in months.”

She starts to say more, something about keeping the place nice and tidy for them, but Erik is already turning away. He knows it's useless even as he takes his phone from his pocket and dials.

“Columbia University, Department of Genetics and Development. How can I help you today?”

“Charles Xavier,” Erik rasps. “I need to speak to him.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the man on the other end says pleasantly. “Dr. Xavier has taken a leave of absence. Is there somewhere else I can direct your call?”

Erik can hear the blood pounding in his ears. “How long will he be gone? Where did he go?”

“I'm afraid I can't give out that information, sir.”

“Please,” Erik says, and for a moment he doesn't believe it's come to this, to begging a silly human boy for information about his own damn husband. “Please. He's my husband. I need to know where he's gone.”

There's a long pause. The pounding in Erik’s ears is so loud he barely hears it when the man says slowly, “I'm sorry, sir. He didn't say. But… they've already assigned replacements for all his classes. I don't think he's coming back any time soon.”

Erik's vision grays out at the edges. The call disconnects abruptly. Behind him, the car’s alarm starts to blare. In the distance, the ancient satellite dish creaks and begins to turn in circles.

The servant girl cries out in fear. Erik doesn't care. Let her be afraid. Let all of humanity be afraid. Erik is so angry he can barely breathe and now there's no one here to stop him from feeling it.

They were going to leave him eventually, he knows that. Better now than later. Better now before he got too attached. He was wrong when he thought the love was enough. He was wrong. He doesn't love Charles and he certainly doesn't love David. He won't miss them, and he doesn't want them back. He hates them both. He _wanted_ them gone.

He's not going to cry. He's not. He… he refuses to cry.

Erik sits down hard. Maybe his knees give out, he can't be sure. The car falls silent. The satellite stills.

“Oh Gott,” he says, or maybe only thinks. “I'm sorry. Please come back.”

His mind is silent. There's no response. Charles can't hear him.

Erik is alone. Erik… Erik is always alone in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters are written and will be updated once a day until I run out. By then hopefully there will be something more queued up.
> 
> Also, I cried a little bit writing this...?


	3. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the amazing feedback! It really inspired me to keep going.
> 
> Short chapter today, longer chapters tomorrow and the next day. (And those will both be about Charles and his continuing adventures on I-80).

Erik spends over an hour lying on the ground in front of the house as the sky grows progressively darker and the servants grow progressively more concerned about him. The tiny woman had not, in fact, been the only one to witness Erik's breakdown, though Erik can hear her recounting the story of how it began to the others who had come running at the sound of the car alarm. Through it all, through each telling of the story, Erik just lies on his back and watches night roll in.

He feels... he doesn't know quite what he feels. Anger, of course, but it feels muted, somehow. Shock, probably, and he thinks it might have been like this when his mother died, though it's hard to think back to those dark days, especially without Charles there to guide his memories.

Oh, Gott. Charles. And David, his dear sweet Mäuschen, and Erik just wants to hold him as he cries without the poor child going into hysterics, but he can't, he never can, and now he'll never get the chance. Oh, David's better off with Charles, wherever that might be now, but Erik just wants to hold his son, and why is that so damned hard?

"Leave me here," he tells the brave soul who comes to rouse him. He means to shout it, but his voice won't come out above a whisper. He feels dizzy, sort of floaty. He's sure it's nothing.

"Sir, you'd be more comfortable inside," the man says, and Erik can't make himself look at the man's face. His eyes keep sliding off it and back to the sky above him.

"Leave," Erik says again. He's sure he has more to say than that, but there's some disconnect in his brain. The brain, the nervous system, filled with electrical impulses, and if Erik was a better person, he would have been a brain surgeon. He might have made a difference, saved lives. Instead, he's an engineer, because obviously making money and perpetuating ethnic stereotypes are more important to him than doing the right thing. Christ, no wonder Charles left him.

"Sir," a different servant says some amount of time later. "You'd be warmer inside."

Erik doesn't say anything, can't seem to make his mouth work anymore. He can't feel the anger at all, either. He can't feel anything, not even his fingers or toes.

"Please come inside where it's warm, sir. Your lips are turning blue."

Erik's not surprised to hear it. It feels like there's not enough air getting into his lungs. He blinks and realizes suddenly that there's a hot wet trail running from his eye down the side of his face closest to the ground. A byproduct of asphyxiation, he thinks, and lets himself drift.

At some point, someone brings a blanket and does their best to wrap him in it. It's warm and fuzzy, but it also smells like Charles. Erik would kick it off if he had any strength in his feet. And if he weren't so damn cold. It's barely September, he knows, and it shouldn't be this bloody cold yet. Erik's ears are burning and his teeth are chattering. He doesn't know how long they've been doing that. His jaw hurts, so it could have been a while.

Erik blinks, and then blinks again. He's so cold. Why is he so cold?

"Sir," says the tiny lady from before. "We're going to take you inside now, okay?"

There's no way, Erik thinks. No way in hell. She's so little and he's not exactly light. But then there are two more servants beside her and then on either side of him: a strapping young man and a well-muscled girl, both only an inch or two shorter than he is. They each grab an arm and somehow manage to lever him up into a standing position. His numb legs don't want to hold him upright, but the servants manage to get him moving forward toward, and then into, the manor. They maneuver through the foyer, down the hall, and into a spare room. It's not the room he and Charles usually share when they come here, and for that he's grateful. If he had to sleep the night in a room that reminded him of Charles, he might not survive it. Well, he might not survive anyway, but at least he’s warm again.

The servants wrangle the boots and jacket off Erik’s body and tuck him under the covers on the bed. He thinks to himself that these guys really need a raise. No matter what Charles is paying them, it can’t be enough for all this. This is above and beyond. He’s so fucking grateful. Much like begging, Erik never thought he’d see the day he’d be _grateful_ to humans. But he is, and when Erik finds Charles, he’s going to make him give them a raise, or a bonus, or some sort of compensation for putting up with Erik in his moment of complete weakness. They didn’t have to help him, could have left him out there and he probably would have been alright come morning. But they _did_ help him, had all but carried him in here and undressed him like the useless invalid he currently seems to be. When Erik finds Charles…

His eyes had drifted shut but they snap open at that thought. When Erik finds Charles. Of course. _When_ Erik finds Charles. Because he’s going to. He’s not just going to sit idly by while his husband and his son are out there in God knows what danger. And alright, Charles can handle himself well enough against predators, but only if he’s willing to use his powers to their full capacity, and he might or might not do that, according to some map of ethics that only he has access to. And there are other things, too, that Charles's powers won’t be any damn help with. Charles is out there alone right now with the baby. He must be exhausted, and no one to watch David while he sleeps. Erik’s not much good with David, though not for lack of trying, but he’s his father and he wants – no needs – to be there for him. And for Charles.

Suddenly, Erik doesn’t know why he was panicking. His original plan still stands, albeit in a modified form. He’s going to sleep now, but in the morning, he’s going to find Charles, beg for forgiveness. He's going to convince Charles to come home. Wherever in this wide world Charles is, Erik will find him. And when he does, they’ll be together again. Forever this time.


	4. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you've all noticed these updates are not in any way timed to be 24 hours apart *shameface*
> 
> Shout out to [Evangeline74](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Evangeline74/pseuds/Evangeline74) for linking [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enlrC2jRg_w) awesome song that could seriously have been written for Erik right now!

Even when he's hungry, David won’t latch unless Charles is hungry, too. It’s one of the many wonderful quirks of the telepathic infant. David also won’t sleep if someone around him is too wakeful, and he won’t play if anyone around him is feeling too sleepy. He cries in large crowds, every time. Self-soothing is a pipe-dream.

If Charles were a better parent, he’d quit his job and live at the estate, where at the very least there would be fewer minds to bother the Mäuschen. As it stands, Charles is not that selfless. It would lead to resentment, and he refuses to turn into his mother. Besides, he’s not sure Erik would ever manage to live a life of leisure in a grand country estate. There’d be too much time to think, not enough action. Erik would try like the devil, but in the end he would be unhappy.

Erik is probably very unhappy right now. Charles tries not to think of it. He won’t deny there’s a vindictive pleasure in knowing he’s causing Erik pain for what he’s done, but that’s a petty thought and unworthy of him. And anyway, it’s very much overshadowed by the heart-stuttering understanding that his marriage is over. Charles had really thought he’d spend the rest of his life with that man. Clearly, he was wrong. It wasn’t easy to leave, but he’s finding it far, far harder to stay gone.

In his sling, the baby starts to fuss. Charles quickly tries to think happy thoughts. If the five months since he gave birth to David have taught Charles anything, it’s how to project calm and happy thoughts. David is so young, still, far too young to be sensing thoughts, but he’s so responsive to the emotions around him that Charles is surprised he and Erik manage as well as they do. Without Charles’s gift, they’d both be lost at sea, of that he’s sure. As it is, there are things even he can’t fix. Erik’s anger, for example, and his inability to soothe David because of it.

David hiccups, and Charles realizes that his thoughts have drifted into maudlin again without his permission. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says, and thinks instead about puppies, and kittens, and rats with teddy bears. He thinks of A.A. Milne’s _Now We Are Six_. He thinks about Die Sendung mit der Maus. He thinks about his and Erik’s first date. The baby flails and spits out his pacifier.

“Damn,” Charles says, and kneels down to pick it up off the ground. He’s not usually this distractible. He’s not usually this nauseous, either, but his stomach is churning and the saliva is gathering at the back of his mouth. If the baby weren’t strapped to him, he thinks he’d have had it out already and been sick all over the cracked sidewalk. He swallows it back instead. It’s no mystery what’s wrong with him; it’s not every day one leaves one’s spouse.

God, poor Erik.

Charles pushes that thought out of his head and instead he starts to play the color game with David. David doesn’t have concrete thoughts yet, nothing that could be written down or translated. He won’t have that type of “real” thought until he develops language skills – which will in all likelihood be before non-telepathic children, just from sheer exposure. But babies have their own way of communicating, and David has a gift most babies don’t. He think in emotions, in sounds, in colors. He recognizes those things when Charles sends them his way and can project them back. Charles has learned his cues by now. When David is hungry, he thinks in yellow. When he wants Charles to hold him, he thinks in a soft baby blue. When he wants Erik, he thinks in silver. He doesn’t think in silver near enough.

Charles has to stop and lean against the wall. He’s so tired and he just wants to be curled up in bed with his husband and his baby. He wants David to want his daddy enough to not be afraid of him. He wants Erik to not be such a goddamn basket case asshole.

Well, if wishes were horses, and all that.

He gets himself moving forward again after a moment, and he and David pass colors back and forth until they reach their destination. A kind woman at the gas station down the street had directed him this way. The day is fine and Charles had felt the need to stretch his legs after so long in the car, so he’d popped the Mäuschen into his sling and walked the few blocks to the local diner. A bite to eat and a chance for his eyes to adjust to something other than broken yellow lines, that’s what Charles needs. He’s not even remotely hungry, not with the way his stomach is cramping, but if he doesn’t eat he won’t be able to produce enough milk for the baby. He’ll force himself, if he has to, and if he can keep his head in the game, he’ll be able to alter David’s perception enough to implant a false sense of his papa’s hunger. Then he’ll latch and eat and then sleep, and everyone will be happy.

A bell above the door jingles as Charles and David step into the restaurant. It’s small and dim inside, but clean enough. The tabletops are bare wood and look like they’ve seen better days. There are only a handful of patrons: two couples – one set in their teens and another in their late fifties, at a glance – and two solitary diners, both older gents. 

There are also two boys standing by the counter. One is older, late teens or very early twenties. The other is maybe eight to ten years younger – 10 or 11, tops. Both have strawberry blonde hair and truly spectacular jawlines, though the younger one hasn’t quite grown into his yet. There’s no doubt in Charles’s mind that they’re brothers, despite the age difference.

The older one looks up at the bell, and scowls. “We’re closed,” he says.

Charles blinks. It’s quite early and a Sunday besides, but the hours listed on the door make it clear they’re perfectly within business hours. The folks sitting here and there making small talk and working their way through breakfast seem to tell the same story.

“Are you, indeed?” he asks. He takes a moment to shield himself from sweet David, then really looks at this boy who’s telling him lies.

Alex Summers, the boy’s mind says. Nineteen-almost-twenty. Released from a juvenile delinquent center three weeks ago, and he’s having trouble adjusting to his old life, the one he lived before the accident. He hasn’t quite come to grips with having so much freedom, not when those prison walls made him feel so safe. At least locked up, he wasn’t able to hurt anyone with his… oh, his mutation. Of course. Charles ought to have known, would have picked up on it immediately if he hadn’t been distracted. Alex Summers is a boy-not-quite-a-man who is terrified of his own power and angry at the world for being the same. He reminds Charles of nothing so much as Erik.

“I’ll tell you what,” Charles says after a moment. “I’m rather a superb tipper. Some might even call it bribery for excellent service, what I do. And if you were, in fact, open, and you were to serve me, some of that bribery might be directed your way.”

Alex thinks about this. The younger one, Scott, nudges the ground with his shoe and looks up at Charles with big eyes from behind his bangs. He’s thinking quite loudly of his headphones, which have stopped playing music from the left ear bud, and Alex swore he’d buy him a new pair once he made some money, but it’s been slow all morning and Scott’s worried Alex will forget if they don’t get some tips soon. Scott has the gene – mutant minds are always recognizable, even if they haven’t yet manifested, as in this case. Charles finds himself hoping whatever power Scott develops will be like enough to Alex’s to satisfy the hero worship and keep them close, but distinct enough that Scott can feel like his own person.

“Alex,” Scott says quietly after the silence has gone on long enough to become uncomfortable.

“Fine,” Alex says, and grabs a menu off the counter. “Follow me.”

He leads Charles to a line of booths along the back wall. He’s aiming for one right in front of the window, but Charles sweeps into his mind and gently persuades him that’s a bad idea; if Charles ends up having to feed David before he leaves, it’ll be easier to only alter the memories of the people inside the restaurant and not have to worry about passersby, as well.

“Thank you,” Charles tells him sincerely, and settles down to look through the menu. “Might I have tea?” he asks, before Alex can stalk away. “Earl Grey, if possible.”

Alex thinks disparaging things about Charles’s accent and taste in tea, and the relative poshness of both. Charles smiles and tries to decide between pancakes and waffles. He’s hoping something sweet will help settle his stomach. That was always his trick when he was pregnant with David, though he’s sure the habit contributed greatly to the baby weight he’s just in this last stressful month finally rid himself of.

Before Charles can completely make up his mind on breakfast foods, Alex is back with a mug of steaming water and a teabag.  


“Earl Gray,” he says, with a wry twist to his mouth.

“Ah, excellent,” Charles says, though bagged tea is not _actually_ up to his usual standards. But beggars really can’t be choosers. He reaches for the tea bag and starts to unwind the string for steeping. “Slow morning, I see,” he says, by way of conversation.

“It’s Sunday,” Alex says like it’s obvious, and when Charles looks at him blankly, he rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s still in church. They’ll be in for brunch once service lets out.” The _obviously_ is missing from the end of his sentence, but it’s loud and clear in his mind.

“Hmm,” Charles says, and Alex takes that as his cue to pull a notebook out of his pocket and hold it aloft, clearly waiting for Charles to place his order. Of course Alex isn’t fond of the church crowd, Charles thinks as he orders: he’s a mutant, very probably homosexual, and a criminal to boot – he’s on strike three with that set.

Alex stomps away with Charles’s order and the baby starts to whine at the surge of his annoyance. Charles glances down at him, and smiles.

“What’s the matter, little one?” he asks, though he knows. David can’t differentiate between the emotions of those around him and his own emotions. Alex is annoyed and near in proximity to David, so David is annoyed also. Charles projects his baby-shield, and David calms again.

“What?” Charles asks again in a sing-song tone.

“Wuh waa,” David says, and smiles his biggest smile. He’s going to have Erik’s teeth, Charles is willing to bet. With a smile like that, it’s inevitable.

“Wuh waa,” Charles says back, and David giggles. He’s got a line of drool running down his chin, and Charles should wipe that away, but David is very cute right now, all brown curls and blue-grey eyes. He’s got Erik’s thin mouth, and Charles’s chin. Charles’s pointy ears, Erik’s long fingers and toes. He’s going to be tall, just like his daddy.

 _Damn you, Erik, for doing this to us_ , Charles thinks, suddenly furious. Anything less than what happened, and Charles would have stayed. They fight, he and Erik, but that’s what couples do. They fight and they make up, and they help each other through their weaknesses. Erik was so easy to anger, but he was happy, too. They were both so fucking happy, and now they never can be again. Looks aside, David is so alike to Charles in so many ways, but Charles will not let this be another thing they have in common. His son will _never_ have to grow up with a father who smacks his family around. And Charles will never, ever be his mother.

_Damn you, Erik. Damn you._


	5. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys continue to rock out loud with the support! Thanks so much!

By 11:30 the diner is, in fact, starting to fill up with people in their Sunday’s best. Charles had honestly forgotten about the custom of churchgoing as practically applied. He tends to think of religion in the abstract: as a philosophical belief to be given deep thought late at night and debated about at dinner parties. It had quite slipped his mind that there are people out there who get up every Sunday morning, put on their best clothes, and join their fellows in praying and singing hymns and listening to sermons and things. Not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that lifestyle. It’s just that Charles believes first and foremost in the compassion of the human spirit, and Erik, for all that he’d had a decently religious upbringing until age fourteen, tends to refer to himself as a secular Jew. 

That’s why it’s a novel experience for Charles, sitting in a diner with churchgoers, hearing their conversation and feeling their thoughts. And admittedly, some of them are not thinking very Christian thoughts at all. Some had been bored with the sermon, while others are just hungry and cranky. Charles is glad David is asleep and can’t be sucked into feeling any of those minds.

Not everyone is unpleasant, however. There are a great many who seem in good spirits, both mentally and in conversation. They talk about their plans for the week, swap lighthearted gossip, brag about their children, and admire one another from afar. Charles closes his eyes and lets himself bask in it.

David, of course, gets many compliments. People love babies, so long as they’re quiet, and David, asleep against Charles’s chest and clutching the sling with his tiny hand, is downright adorable. Certainly, enough people stop by his table to tell him so. Many of them are older and thinking about their own grandchildren (or even their great-grandchildren, goodness), but a fair few are young and pretty and clearly find Charles attractive. In the months leading up to David’s birth, when Charles had been tired and achy and _terribly_ unattractive, he and Erik would joke about each of them taking the baby, once it was born, out to clubs and raves and using his hormone-inducing cuteness to get laid. It had been funny at the time, confident as they were that they’d never stray from one another. Well, it’s not funny now. Charles is still married, and he won’t stray, but they’re not together now, and that’s the sticking point.

“Oh, how precious,” says a woman in a fashionable dress, stopping to admire the view. “How old is he?”

“Five months,” Charles tells her, and honestly, he should just make flash cards or something. With as many times as he’s answered that today, it’s starting to feel a tad repetitive. 

“And so handsome,” the woman says, but her eyes aren’t on the baby any longer.

Charles smiles back, but gently. He doesn’t mind flirting ordinarily, but he’s not up for it today. This woman is about his age and very objectively attractive, but she is still a woman and therefore not really his style. More to the point, she’s not Erik, and that’s a deal breaker.

“Have you just come from church?” he asks, steering the conversation somewhere, anywhere else.

“Yes,” she says, a tad shyly, as though this isn’t something she’s quite comfortable talking about. “I go with my family. My mother likes us all to go together, and you know how mothers can be.”

 _Not really._ “Oh, of course,” he says. Her mother, Charles can see now, is one of the old crones thinking negative thoughts about damn near everyone else. She’d argued against coming to this diner, having pegged Alex out as a queer and a mutant, but her family had overruled her on account of the quality of the daily special. Charles wonders what the old woman would do if he introduced himself to her and explained that not only was he _also_ a queer and a mutant, but his mutation had in fact allowed him to make a baby with another man – a man who of course was a mutant and queer, as well. Probably it wouldn’t be worth the fallout, but he won’t deny he’s tempted anyway.

He makes small talk with the woman for another few minutes then casually flashes his wedding ring. That’s largely the end of that. Or it is until the next hopeful comes along looking for love in all the wrong places.

 

XXXXX

 

"Is that your baby?" Charles looks up to see Scott peering up at him through his hair again. Shy, this one, but he's at an age where it's still endearing.

"Yes, he is. His name is David."

"'S'cute," Scott says, and the want to touch something so precious is welling up in him.

"You can touch him, if you'd like," Charles says. "But be gentle. He's fairly new yet and I'm afraid we've evolved in such a way that left our young especially vulnerable, comparatively."

Scott doesn't completely understand, but he gets the gist. He nods and oh so slowly reaches a hand out to touch David's chubby cheek. David flails his arm happily and manages to latch on to Scott's shirtsleeve. Scott looks utterly charmed.

Charles smiles. The childish wonder and sweet innocence David is picking up from Scott must be a welcome reprieve from all the other adult minds that surround them. David has never been around as many children as Charles would like, though not from lack of trying. But they do have to be rather choosey in who they leave David with when both he and Erik are at work, and until David manages to get his power more under control, it's going to have to remain that way. Well, with some minor adjustments, obviously, now that this bloody awful situation has been forced upon them.

"Where's his mom?" Scott asks eventually, when David starts to get bored and loosen his grip.

 _I_ am _the mom_ , Charles thinks but doesn't say. He won't confuse a child who may or may not have a solid grasp on the birds and the bees. And besides, he doesn’t want Scott speaking to his brother about the subject, not without Charles there to supervise and clarify. Charles’s secondary reproductive mutation is exceedingly rare, after all, and if Alex ever finds a man with whom he'd like to procreate, odds are a woman will have to be involved.

"It's just him and me today," Charles tells Scott, and the boy doesn't seem to notice the evasion.

Charles checks his watch. He's got nowhere to be, particularly, but the diner closes at two and it's nearly 1:30. Charles has been taking up a table for most of the morning while he sat enjoying the atmosphere and giving the baby a break from the car seat. He'll certainly have to leave that spectacular tip he promised Alex, if only to make up for loitering so long. He won't be able to use the joint checking, of course, since Erik could see that and come investigating, but Charles has other means of paying the bills. For one thing, they've both got separate and private savings accounts, though what few withdrawals they'd made before this little road trip had been for secret presents and other surprises. Charles had passed a branch location in one of the towns he's pulled over to nurse in, and he'd taken enough money to get by awhile yet. Enough for a tip, anyway.

"I'd better get going," he says, and reaches for his wallet.

A pang of loneliness rolls off Scott so strongly and suddenly it makes the Mäuschen reach out for the boy.

Charles puts his wallet back down.

"Actually," he says, "I'm in no hurry. Why don't you sit down?"

Scott does, sliding into the booth next to Charles and reaching out to gently take David's hand.

"Can you keep a secret, Scott?" Charles asks.

Scott looks up and nods eagerly.

"Are you sure? This is a very important secret, and it has to be kept. Are you up to that?"

"Yes," Scott says instantly.

Charles smiles. "Good," he says. "Think of a number. Any number, now, no restrictions."

Eleven, Scott thinks, and Charles could have guessed it without telepathy. But Scott doesn't have to know that.

"Eleven," Charles says, and Scott gapes.

"How'd you know?" he asks, bug eyed.

"You see, I have a very special gift, Scott. I can hear what you're thinking."

Scott instantly thinks, as people always do when they learn of this gift, of all the things he'd rather no one ever found out about: a broken plate thrown away in secret, a stolen cartoon-shaped eraser he'd kept under his pillow for two months before he'd lost it, a girl who'd kissed him and then pushed him down in the mud last fall. Very quickly, however, Scott's mind turns to the possibilities.

"Can you do it to anybody?" he asks.

"Anybody," Charles confirms, although it's not completely true and more complicated than that. There are exceptions, but he'll not get into those now.

"What number am I thinking now?"

"Nineteen," Charles tells him, and Scott actually cheers.

"Wow," he says, and he looks shy again suddenly. "That's really cool."

"Thank you," Charles says. "David has the gift also, though I'm afraid he's too young to use it in the way I do."

"Him?" Scott asks, eyeing David speculatively. "But he's so little."

"He is," Charles agrees. "But sometimes these things start at a very young age. David's started before he was even born. Of course, others get a later start. Your brother was nearly thirteen when his first started, wasn't he?"

Scott looks nervous, suddenly, and his mother's warning not to talk about Alex's problem flashes through his mind.

"It's not a _problem_ , dear boy," Charles says gently. "It's a gift. And I'm willing to bet you've a gift, as well. Age thirteen will be your lucky year, I think."

"Really?" Scott is filled with the sort of hope and pride that can only come from _belonging_. Charles knows it very well, has felt it time and again: when he’d first met Raven, and later, the first time he’d touched Erik’s mind. "You think I've got a gift too?"

"I know you do," Charles says. "It's just a question of when it will happen. But don't rush yourself, Scott. You're perfect just as you are."

Scott blushes, but seems pleased.

"I guess that's why you're here, then," he says after a minute. "Because of the people with the prob- with the _gifts_."

Charles perks up. "Are there many of them, then?" he asks. There are social groups for mutants in the cities, and lobbying groups to keep them out of the wrong end of politics, but way out here in the countryside, Charles is willing to bet there's been no formal congregation. It might be worthwhile to stick around this town, at least until he can ferret out whatever mutants may be lurking and let them know they're not alone.

"A couple," Scott says vaguely, and Charles can tell it's because he doesn't know for sure beyond rumors, not because he's trying to be deliberately unhelpful.

"Well, as a matter of fact, that _is_ why I'm here. I was planning on hanging around awhile, if I can find a place to stay."

"Oh that's so cool," Scott says, and then jumps up suddenly when a bell rings off in the kitchen. "I've got to go," he says in a rush. He presses a quick, gentle kiss on top of David's head, then scampers off into the kitchen.

Fairly soon after that, Charles finds himself at the counter with his bill, being rung out by a middle-aged woman with strawberry blond hair and tired eyes. 

"Mrs. Summers, I presume?"

She smiles at him, weary but genuine. "Kat, please. And you're obviously the one my Scotty's been jabbering about for the past ten minutes. I hope he wasn't bothering you."

"No, not at all," Charles says, and he feels her relief, but also her willingness to defend her son, should Charles have answered in the affirmative.

"He mentioned you were in the market for a place to stay?"

"Ah," Charles says, pleased. "Yes, nothing too permanent, mind, but I plan to be in town for at least a few weeks. Would you be able to recommend anything?"

"Well now," she says, and taps her lips with her finger. "I'm almost sure the old hotel still has rooms for rent. It's over a bar now, see, but I think they still have rooms there."

"I'm not sure a bar would be ideal," Charles says gently. "With the baby, and all."

"Oh, of course," she says, shaking her head slightly. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking clearly. In that case, I think your only option is one of the rooms above the shops here on Main Street. Pretty sure a few were empty, last I heard. You could try Logan first at the hardware store. He’s not overly friendly, but he’s clean and he’s honest, and I think his apartment might still be for rent.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Summers,” Charles says, and leaves as impressive a tip as had been previously promised. “Your sons were both lovely.”

“And thank you,” Kat says, sounding surprised but pleased. “I hope I’ll see you around, Mr…”

“Xavier,” Charles supplies, reaching out for a handshake. “But call me Charles. And this is David.”

"Nice to meet you,” she says. “And welcome to Hammer Bay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing sinister meant by the name, just needed something vaguely canon-related


	6. Charles

The hardware store is remarkably easy to find, Charles discovers. There are perhaps 3,000 people in this town all told, and maybe fifty businesses to serve them. Howlett’s Hardware is one of these, three places down from the diner and across the street from the grocery. This store, too, has a jangly bell above the door, but unlike at the diner, no one looks up when Charles enters. Charles blinks in the fluorescent lighting for a moment, getting his bearings, and feels out the minds in the place. There are two customers, a teenage boy and an elderly man, and one other person in the very back corner whose mind is strangely slippery.

“Hello,” he calls out cheerily. “I'm looking for Logan.”

There's a brief shocked pause about the place, and then the boy coughs nervously from the next row over.

“Hello?” he asks again.

“Fuck’s sake,” says a gruff man as he rounds the corner. He's wearing workman’s pants and flannel, and he has a cigar tucked up behind his ear.

“What?” he growls as stops in front of the counter. “Who the hell are you?”

Charles smiles pleasantly. This is the man with the slippery mind. Charles would have to really be trying to get inside his head. He also fits the description Kat Summers had given Charles. What was it she had said? _Not overly friendly?_ That certainly seems to be the case with this man.

“Good morning,” Charles says and smiles. “I was just speaking to Mrs. Summers over at the diner and she said you might have a space for short term rental. I'm rather new in town, you see, and looking for a place to stay.”

The man, Logan, narrows his eyes and leans back against the counter. “You're rich, ain't ya, bub?”

Charles laughs, vaguely affronted but mostly amused. “You might say that,” he agrees. “That is, it has been said before.”

“Just you and the baby?”

Charles agrees.

“It's 500 a month, utilities included. Fully furnished but some of it’s seen better days. Money upfront for the first two months, and you better keep the noise down while the shop’s open.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Charles says. Sounds cheap, is what he thinks, but he understands the cost of living here is astronomically lower than it is in the city. “And when would I be able to move in by?”

The man shrugs. “What do I care? Today, if you want. Key’s over here.”

“Today?” Charles says, surprised. “That's… rather soon. Don't you need to do a background check? What about a lease?”

Logan snorts. “Ain't no man with a baby gonna rob me,” he says, and fishes the key from under the counter. “Money first, then you get this.”

“Fair enough,” Charles says, and takes out his wallet. He hates to pay in twenties for something like this, would much rather write a check, but he can't risk Erik seeing a check being cashed in their joint account.

Logan counts his money, hands him the key, and then fixes him with a hard look. Charles tries to look responsible and calm, and not like his life fell down around his ears less than two days ago. For brief moments at a time, he can forget the reason behind this little adventure, and think instead _fun and new people and road trip_. He's trying very hard not to think about what he's left behind.

“Cute kid,” Logan says at last, but for all his gruffness, the compliment doesn't seem forced. “What's his name.”

“David,” Charles tells him. “And I'm Charles Xavier.”

There's a loud crash from the next aisle and Logan growls, “Damnit Hank,” and stalks off toward the noise. Charles follows behind, curious. The teenager in the next aisle is tall and skinny, exceedingly pretty with dark hair and high cheekbones. His glasses are askew and he's standing in the wreckage of what must have been a neatly ordered shelf of tools two minutes ago.

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds very much younger than the seventeen Charles now knows he is. “Oh, Logan, I'm so sorry. I just-” 

He looks up at Charles with shiny, wondering, hero-worshiping eyes. 

Charles smiles at him, flattered. “Charles Xavier,” he says, and holds out his hand. Hank’s palm, when he shakes, is clammy and trembling.

“Hank McCoy,” Hank says. “I- I'm a big fan.”

“Oh, you've heard of me?” he asks, feigning surprise. This boy is a mutant. Charles is intrigued. 

“I've read all your papers,” Hank says in a rush. “I came to visit Columbia last year, considered early admission. But they said you were on sabbatical.”

“I'm terribly sorry to have missed you,” Charles says earnestly. This boy, he's going to like. “My son was born at the end of last term, you see, and we had quite a bit to manage before he got here.” Things like hiding his increasingly obvious pregnancy, for example. “Perhaps now that I'm in town we can take some time, have tea and discuss genetics.”

Hank blushes scarlet. “I'd really like that, Professor,” he says quietly.

“Look,” Logan interrupts. “I don't care. Hank, get this mess cleaned up before you go. And you,” he adds to Charles, “parking’s around back.”

“Thank you, Logan,” Charles says, and flashes Hank another smile. “Drop by any time, Hank. I'm sure I'll see you around.”

 

XXXXX

 

Charles’s new apartment is… _something_. He hasn’t quite made up his mind what that something is, but it’s surely something. It’s a two-bedroom affair, which is actually one more than Charles needs, if he’s being picky about it. David isn’t quite old enough for Charles to feel comfortable with him sleeping in his own room. In the apartment in New York, they’d had a nursery, but they’d only put him down there for naps or for short periods when Charles and Erik were planning on having sex.

Charles swallows and tries to unthink that last thought. _Fuck_.

Well. Anyway.

David has a lot of _stuff_. Charles had only taken away with him the essentials, but that still includes rather a lot. He has the carseat, the stroller, the collapsible play yard, the exerciser, the baby tub, the baby wash, the sling, the bloody stuffed bear, the teething rattle (just in case), the crinkle soft book, a handful of pacifiers, bottles and the breast pump, and a whole hell of a lot of diapers, wipes, bibs, and clothing. And that’s just David’s things. Charles himself had packed much more modestly, but he had still needed to grab a decent amount of clothes, his toiletries, and his laptop. Fitting all of that into his car had been much like playing Jenga. Drunk. And upside down. The idea of having to now unpack it all and lug it up the stairs to the apartment is honestly making him rethink this whole undertaking. At least when he’d left New York he'd had the rage of the conflict flowing through his veins. Now he just feels empty, and put-upon, and nauseous. 

Also, there had been an elevator in New York. Charles has never claimed he isn’t spoiled.

Nothing for it. He sets David up for a nap in his car seat and gets to work.

In the end, it takes about an hour to get everything hauled in and set up in the right places. It was quite the chore. He’d regretted briefly, as he made his twentieth trip up the stairs, that his power isn’t something practical. Telekinesis would be useful at this juncture, he thinks, or even teleportation. Super-strength would also have been handy, provided it also came with super stamina.

David, at least, slept through the proceedings. He’s usually pretty tightly on a schedule of half-hour naps, but either the change in environment is wearing him out or he’s picking up on Charles’s tiredness and channeling it. That can happen sometimes, but as long as he stays within safe sleep limits, Charles usually lets it go. Maybe that’s bad parenting, too, but it’s exhausting having to be calm and happy all the time. On the parenting blogs they always say it’s okay to break down and cry when it gets hard, and he appreciates that theory, but it’s very much _not_ okay for Charles. The only time he gets his own damn emotions to himself is when the baby is asleep. He hasn’t been able to have a truly loud emotion in almost six months. It’s possible the strain is getting to him.

Now, he thinks, would be the perfect time to put the block on David’s telepathy. It would clear up these problems for both of them, and now that Erik is no longer in the picture, Charles really can make unilateral decisions.

He kneels down to where David is still asleep in his car seat. He’ll be waking soon, but while he’s still asleep, Charles could do this. He reaches out, strokes David’s temple with his fingertip. It would be so, so easy. It needs done. It _has_ to be done.

Charles drops his hand. Later, he thinks, but he knows even as he thinks it that _later_ will never come.

More than one door closed today, then. And if he’ll regret any of them, only time will tell.

XXXXX

“Oh, Hank! Excellent. Do come in.”

There’s no store in town that sells kitchen appliances, it turns out, and they hadn’t ranked high enough on Charles's list of necessities that he’d thought to bring any away with him. They wouldn’t have fit in the car, in any case. But there does happen to be a college town about fifteen minutes from Hammer Bay where one can buy all manner of things, if one has the means. Charles had gotten directions from a grumpy Logan a few days before and made the trip in time for David’s afternoon nap. He’d gotten a tea kettle, among other things, so he now has no reason at all not to have guests about. He’s bound and determined to give life here a real go. He’ll not sit around in his house staring at the walls and moping over his lost love – that way madness lies. That’s why when he’d run into Hank coming out of the diner yesterday, he’d invited him over for tea.

“Hello, Professor,” Hank says shyly. He’s brought muffins of the kind they sell in the diner, and Charles wonders idly if he spends all his time there.

Charles gets Hanks settled in the living room, and David in his exerciser groping a rattling wheel he can’t quite get to spin. He pours them a cup of tea each. Hank does not take lemon or milk and gives Charles an odd look for even asking.

“Now, then,” Charles says. He turns more directly to face Hank’s chair and then crosses his leg across his lap. “How are you? How’s school?”

Most children, Charles has come to understand from the parenting blogs, do not like to talk about school. They get enough of that during the day, apparently, and once they’re at home they would rather do anything than tell their parents about their day. Hank is not most kids.

“Oh it’s great!” Hank says, lighting up at once. He had been biting his lip and twisting his sleeves with his fingers a moment ago, but now he looks completely in his element. Charles had thought this might be the case. “I’m taking an experimental chemistry course right now and it’s really fascinating.”

“I didn’t realize the high school had that type of facility,” Charles muses, and for whatever reason, that makes Hank blush again.

“They don’t,” he says, eyeing the patch of wall a few feet over Charles’s head. “I’m taking college classes through Penn State. Dual enrollment. They’re mostly online since we're so far away, but for the lab portion of this class I have to drive to the local campus.”

“Why, that’s brilliant!” Charles says. He hadn’t had any reason to pry earlier, but now he’s curious. He reaches out carefully and flutters across Hank’s thoughts. He gets a flash of _embarassedcuriousshyjealousAlex_ before he filters through and finds what he’s looking for: Hank’s school experiences are really quite extraordinary. He’s going to be wonderful in biomechanics, if he sticks to the major once he gets to college proper. He may even just revolutionize the field.

“It’s nothing, really,” Hank says, still too shy to meet Charles’s eyes. “My mother didn’t want me skipping more than a grade in school, so I’ve been doing the college classes for a couple years now. It’ll save money in the long run, and I won’t have to spend as long in college before I can get into the job market.”

Charles laughs, not unkindly. “Hank, my friend, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. You don’t have to explain yourself at all, as far as I’m concerned. If this is what makes you happy, you should be doing it. Anyone can see you’re a brilliant young man. And take it from one man of science to another, you’ll never be happier than you are when you’re doing what you love.”

Hank is a puddle of embarrassed goo on the carpet. Charles should probably be worried about inappropriate crushes developing out of this hero-worship Hank’s entertaining, but he doesn’t feel anything like that coming from Hank’s mind.

“Thank you, Professor,” Hank says a little reverently.

Charles lets him calm down, preoccupies himself with making faces at the Mäuschen, who giggles and attempts what may be a wave. He’s flashing a warm sunshiny gold, and so he’s content. Charles gives him gold back, and David giggles some more. At length, Charles asks Hank, “Why Penn State?”

Hank’s eyes dart to him and away quickly. Then he visibly steels himself, tilting his chin up defiantly. “It’s local,” he says. “And they cover mutations under their non-discriminatory policy.” His folds his arms over his chest and waits for a reaction, but his chin is still up and he’s still meeting Charles’s eyes, like he’s said it and now he’s going to stick to it.

“Ah,” Charles says casually. “The mutation. I did wonder when we were going to get around to that.”

Hank sputters for a long moment. “I suppose you must,” he finally manages. “That is, in your field, I suppose you must meet-”

“Not just in the field, dear boy,” Charles says, and then adds with a mental touch, _In this very room_.

Hank startles. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. That’s… Professor, that’s amazing! Imagine the possibilities!”

“I don’t have to imagine them,” Charles reminds him. “But I could show you, if you like.”

“Yes, please,” Hank says, too excited to be shy any longer.

Charles reaches out once more into Hank’s mind and shows him a memory from Charles’s mind: Charles and David on a walk yesterday, when they’d gotten all turned around and lost, despite the fact that there’s only one major road and a handful of side streets. Hank smiles in awe, but thinks, _How could anyone get lost in this town, even if they were trying?_

 _How, indeed?_ Charles thinks back, and then, broadcasting what he’s about to do, taps into Hank’s memories, letting Hank see him do it. He can do this without the other person ever knowing, but that’s really not the purpose of this exercise. The memory he latches onto is right at the top of Hank’s mind, so he’s been thinking on it recently.

Alex Summers is front and center in this memory, and Charles finds he’s not as surprised as he perhaps should be. The memory is nothing explicit, just Hank and Alex sitting out behind the diner, Alex rolling his eyes as Hank talks about his classes. Despite the innocence, however, there is a great deal of emotion tied to this memory – longing and lust and the ache of unrequited love. 

Hank, Charles notices, is blushing once more.

“We have quite a bit in common, you and I,” Charles says, and lets himself project a feeling of warm acceptance Hank’s way. It’s the sort of belonging feeling he’d felt from Scott Summers that first day at the diner, and he does his very best to replicate it. “Alex Summers is a fine man. In desperate need of some tender care, I’d say. He reminds me quite a bit of my husband, as a matter of fact.”

This revelation does not stop Hank’s blush, but he does look quite a bit less apprehensive. “I didn’t realize you were… married.”

“We’re on a break,” Charles says, and sighs. “I left him.”

A rush of guilt sweeps through Hank, but Charles waves away his apology.

“No, no, it’s quite alright. It’s a fairly recent development and I’m handling it.” He’s not, but that’s neither here nor there, as far as Hank is concerned. “Now then, tell me about your classes.”

Hank does.


	7. Erik

Erik starts as he means to go on, but it doesn’t quite work out like that in the end. He starts the hunt for Charles the same way he’d started the hunt for Sebastian Shaw ten years ago – minus all the waiting around he’d had to do first in the more militant mutant circles for clues on where to begin. At least this time he knows his target well enough to see clearly where to start.

Being on the hunt again is bringing back pieces of Erik he hadn’t realized he’d lost. He can feel it resurfacing in his mind, can feel the patterns of _investigate-hunt-attack_ taking root once more. Charles could do this work with less effort, Erik is sure, but Charles isn’t here right now, and that’s the point, isn’t it? Besides, Erik has skills Charles will never have, and he knows how to put them to good effect: even after all this time, Erik still frightens people. In some cases - some very personal cases, at that - it’s heartbreaking. But here and now it's becoming very useful. 

The man Erik is now stalking is one he knows vaguely; they'd met at a University departmental picnic, and the four of them – Erik, Charles, this man and his wife – have gone out for drinks a few times. They aren't close, and Erik hasn’t seen him since David was born. The man won’t recognize Erik’s voice, he’s sure of it, and the sky is overcast tonight, so he won’t see Erik either. Good, that’s all good.

They’re nearly to the right building, Erik and his prey, when the man he’s following seems to notice he’s got a shadow. He speeds up a bit, obviously not sure his mind isn’t playing tricks on him, and Erik stops hiding himself altogether. He has nothing to fear from this man, and the man has no hope of evading him now. 

There are twelve balls of muzzleloader shot in Erik’s pocket, and the other 88 from the box are safe in Erik’s car six blocks away – he can feel them if he concentrates and he can call to them if it looks necessary. They’re good solid lead, these musket balls, and Erik feels better to have them, even with other metal so available to him in the city. You know never when you’re going to be trapped in a plastic room – it’s happened before, after all.

But this man, he’s no threat, and they both know it. Erik matches his speed and it’s not long at all before he’s killing the lights in the man’s building and following him inside.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asks in the dark. He’s got his back to the elevator doors and his finger is hitting the call button repeatedly. There’s no response. He’d actually tried for the stairs first, Erik knows, and it was a smart move, but the metal door hadn’t opened for him, and that should have been his warning sign. “What do you want from me?”

Erik stalks slowly through the small lobby toward him. He’s in no rush. This man isn’t going anywhere Erik doesn’t want him to go. Erik has the power here. He takes another step forward. It’s so dark he can barely see the man’s expression, but he can see the shaking of his hands.

“Tell what you know about Charles Xavier,” Erik says quietly. “Tell me where he’s gone and I’ll leave you be.”

“Xavier?” the man says. He still sounds scared, but now he’s also confused. “How would I know? He hasn’t been back to work in days. They’ve been filling his classes. What does he have to do with anything?”

“He is _everything_ ,” Erik growls. “And you know where he’s gone.”

“No,” the man says quickly, pushing himself back further into the metal door. “No, I swear. I have no idea where he is. We don’t- we’re not that close, he doesn’t tell me things!”

“I don’t believe you,” Erik says. He takes another step forward, but it’s perfunctory. He _does_ believe the man. He can hear it in his voice that this is man who had nothing to hide. This is a dead end.

“No,” the man says. “No, please. Please, I swear I don’t know!”

The elevator doors open suddenly and the man stumbles back into it, nearly falls. The lights are off inside, too. This man won't have anything to report to the police when they ask.

“I’ll be watching you,” Erik tells him. He won’t be. He lets the elevator doors close between them and mentally crosses this man’s name off the list.

A dead end, then. But it is only his first lead. There will be others. There are always others.

XXXXX

By the time Erik’s worked his way through the colleagues Charles is reasonably close to, he’s no nearer any evidence of where Charles may be headed. He’s also coming to the realization that this hunt holds no thrill for him. He doesn’t know what – or when or how or why – changed within him between this and the last time he’d done this work, but plainly something has. He’s not enjoying the humans being scared of him. Oh, he’s glad to be the one in control, glad to not be at their mercy, but he doesn’t fool himself into thinking he’s getting anything out of their fear.

It hadn’t been like this the last time, though he had been very young then, and very frightened. And angry, of course. And for all that Erik still feels angry so much of the time, maybe he’s not as angry as he used to be. If that’s the case, Erik knows squarely where to lay the blame: with Charles Xavier.

It’s no one’s secret that Erik adores Charles (except maybe for how it sort of is). But he doesn’t think that’s entirely his fault. He’d been so alone before Charles, and Charles had loved him before Erik even knew there was anything about himself to love. Charles is the reason and the rhyme, and Erik knows he’d never be able to look that man in the eye again if he carries on like he did the last time he was hunting someone. 

And even apart from that, Charles is not Sebastian Shaw. If Erik has to hurt people to get Charles to come back to him, it will prove that Erik does not deserve him. It will take longer this way – the nonviolent way – to locate Charles and the Mäuschen, and that knowledge aches in Erik’s gut. But that’s something he _does_ deserve. He’d decided the moment he let Raven swing that bat that he’s going to pay in blood for his mistakes. That blood may not entirely be physical, and that’s something Erik’s just going to have to deal with. Charles deserves reparation, even if he wouldn’t seek it out for himself. And after Erik’s bled enough, he will find Charles and David, and he will bring them home.

XXXXX

Erik paces the apartment while he thinks through his options. He hates to be in this big apartment alone, but it’s raining out and he has to keep his cast dry. He hates being restricted like this, and he hates even more that he has so few options for finding his family. Now that he’s decided against the violent approach – which may have ended in tears but would at least get him to Charles and David sooner – he is left with very limited choices.

He could go to the courts. It’s a laughable thought, but it could be done. For all that Charles’s second mutation and the truth of David’s birth aren’t common knowledge or even particularly remembered by those who were there, Erik and Charles are both listed on David’s birth certificate. But even if a judge did award Erik custody – and she wouldn’t, not with Erik’s criminal background and green card – that would make this kidnapping and get Charles into legal trouble, but not actually solve the immediate problem of how to _locate_ Charles. And anyway, Erik hasn’t trusted the human justice system in twelve years, not since his mother died. He’s not about to start trusting it now when the future of his family is at stake. No, he’ll do this on his own.

If Erik were being ruthless, he would hold up a bank and make them tell him where Charles is withdrawing his money. Charles is smart and he definitely knows Erik will be keeping an eye on the joint checking account, but he must be getting money from somewhere, and Erik’s willing to bet he’s been less careful about withdrawing from his own personal savings account. Erik’s name isn’t on it, so he can’t demand any information about it. Erik is damn sure that just as soon as Charles comes home, they’re moving all the money to a central location both of them can touch. But first thing’s first.

What Erik can do – and this isn’t quite legal but it’s not violent or harming anyone, either – is nominally monitor the IP location of any purchase Charles might make. The company Erik works for does a lot of sales to the average consumer. Not the airplanes he helps design, obviously, since those go for around three hundred million, but there are other things: laptops and headphones and thumb drives – anything electronic really. The downside of this is that Erik has to hear all about sales figures at every company-wide meeting he attends. The upside is that the company is popular enough to have fraudsters buying their products with stolen credit cards, and that means an in-house e-commerce fraud prevention team. The FPT is not nearly as careful as they should be about credentials. The upshot of it all is that if Charles buys anything electronic from Erik’s company – and he will eventually, he’s a terrible snob about brand loyalty – Erik will be able to see where he’s logging in from. Erik could just sit back and wait for Charles’s headphones to break, and then he’d have him.

Of course, it might be a long wait, and Erik’s never been one to sit idly by when there’s work to be done.

There’s an atlas that Erik knows is stuffed under six months’ worth of unread _Z. Naturforsch. C_ on one of the bookshelves in Charles’s office. He goes to unearth it and find a ruler.

XXXXX

Erik doesn’t dream, for the most part, or if he does, he doesn’t remember them. He has wondered in the past if that wasn’t Charles’s influence, if the man wasn’t projecting calm at him unconsciously in his sleep. Erik had had terrible nightmares as a teenager. It had used to get him beaten up in the group home; seven or eight kids would wail on him at once and mock him for crying in his sleep, and Erik hadn’t been able to do anything about it except nurse the bruises afterward, because if he’d used his powers they would have had him back in that plastic cell in juvie before the dust even cleared. That had been one of the reasons he’d run away from the home after less than six months there, though not the most pressing reason.

After Erik had met Charles and they’d done what they had to do to bring Shaw down, Erik’s nightmares had stopped almost completely. They’d resurfaced briefly when Charles was pregnant with David, though whether that was nerves at impending fatherhood or Charles being too exhausted to keep the dreams at bay, Erik can only guess. And either way, the dreams are back now.

Erik is always a child in his dreams and always utterly helpless. Sometimes he’s in Shaw’s tender mercies, sometimes it’s the matrons at the group home keeping him tied him, and sometimes, like tonight, it’s the juvenile rehabilitation center. He’d spent eighteen months on that hall, and it was eighteen months of a plastic cell, and of terrified human guards taking hits at him with wooden sticks when they thought he was getting uppity. 

Tonight, there are no sticks, but his hands are strapped to the wooden bed post with plastic cable ties, and he’s scared. He can hear the sound of clicks in the hallway outside his closed door, and that always means the guards are coming. Click-clack, click-clack, and they sound heavier than usual, and shivers run up Erik’s spine, because he knows what that means. He knows who’s coming for him even before the door opens.

Shaw steps through the door, and he’s smiling, just like he always smiles for Erik. “Hello, Erik,” he says, and smile some more.

Erik tries to yank his wrists free, but the cuffs cut in and tighten against his movement.

“Don’t struggle, Erik,” Shaw says and takes a step forward. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, son.”

Erik does stop struggling, but only so he can reach out with his senses and try to feel for a weapon. He’s stronger, so much stronger now than when Shaw had him in his keep, and if Erik could only reach something from the main prison, he could –

Shaw steps closer still, and that’s when Erik notices what he’s holding. It’s a baby. It’s Erik’s baby.

“David,” he chokes. “David, no.”

Shaw’s still smiling. “He’s going to make a much better student than you ever did, Erik. And now I know the trigger. All I have to do is kill his mother and I’ll be able to control his power. And what power he’ll have.”

“You can’t have him!” Erik shouts. “He’s mine!”

“You had your chance,” Shaw says easily, and he turns his smile on poor David. “You let him get away. Now he’s mine to shape. He’ll be the son you never were to me, Erik. Together, he and I will rule this world. It’s as it was always meant to be. Goodbye, Erik.”

“No!” Erik yanks at his cuffs. The plastic cuts into his skin and he can feel himself start to bleed. He yanks again and feels the jolt the whole way up his arm. “No!”

Erik sits up in bed abruptly, awake and panting. His arm is still aching, but only the left one. His eyes are full of tears. His throat aches from yelling. Without thinking it through, he grabs his phone and dials. It rings five times and then Erik hears Charles’s voice. His heart leaps in fear and hope. Then he realizes it’s only the voicemail. Erik listens to recording of Charles telling the caller to leave a message and he’ll get back to them.

Erik doesn’t leave a message.


	8. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end.

Erik has four weeks of vacation owed to him through the company. It’s frustrating that he can’t just take off and start the search for Charles immediately, but right now his best bet on finding him at all is the access to the company network, and Erik can’t afford to lose that trump card. There’s also the thought in his mind that when Charles does come back – and he will, Erik is determined of that – they’ll still have to make a life together somehow. Charles did the decent thing and informed his workplace that he would be out of town for the near future, so it’s only right that Erik do the same, even if the last thing in the world he wants is to waste more time when he could be out searching.

So he puts on his trousers and tie and doesn’t watch himself in the mirror. He tells himself that he is in complete control, and no, he’s not still shaking from the aftereffects of last night’s dream. Erik is calm and collected. Erik is a man on a mission. Erik is burning with anger at this whole damn situation and has no way to release it.

 _Damn Charles_ , he thinks, but then regrets it as soon as the thought’s fully formed. Because that’s not right, is it? None of this is Charles’s fault, except for the part where he’s so goddamn perfect all the time and makes Erik feel inadequate just by breathing. But that’s really more Erik’s issue than Charles’s. What Erik needs to do, he thinks, is just accept he will never be as good as, or good enough for, Charles Xavier. Then there would be nothing to be hurt or embarrassed about and no reason to be angry. Charles is always right, and always good, and always in control of himself. Erik is… less so, and if he could just accept that, life would be much easier.

Erik considers the problem on the train into work, and he considers it some more on the elevator ride up to his office. He can feel the stares of the people around him, but what does he care for those? Erik is used to staring; once people know what he is and what he can do they do nothing but stare. Erik would rather it be for that reason than for his broken arm and bloodshot eyes, but he’s survived far worse than this gawking. He’ll be gone soon, anyway. He’s only here to inform management he’s leaving.

Azazel is already in when Erik gets to the office, but the shared space doesn’t feel any more crowded for it. Azazel has a way of disappearing in a space, and not only in the literal way he also sometimes does. It’s more that Azazel has a gift for making himself as inconspicuous as it’s possible for a man with red skin and a tail to be. 

_Now here’s a man who understands staring_ , Erik thinks, but at least he can skip the train and the elevator ride and appear directly in their private office. Erik is not jealous, not at all.

“Get into a bar fight?” Azazel asks as Erik turns on his computer. “ _Lose_ a bar fight?”

“Baseball accident,” Erik tells him, and he grins because it feels like an inside joke this time, even if it’s only with himself.

“Mmm,” Azazel hums. “I am sure. Do you have the file on the new FDIU? I look for them yesterday when you were out but could not find them.”

“Yes. Give me a minute. I’ll send them to you as soon as I’m booted up.”

They fall into a silence that is the hallmark of their partnership. Erik had been very hesitant when Azazael had first come on board – not because he looks like the devil incarnate, but because Erik had been by himself up until that point and actively dislikes the small talk that must often go between coworkers. He’d been… well Charles had called it “unbelievably rude” to the man at first. It turned out, though, that Azazel is also not a fan of meaningless conversation, and so they were able to fall into an easy rhythm. The two of them say little to one another, but what they do is say is important. Of course, it also helps that the two of them have a significant amount in common: foreign nationals, the both of them, and both helplessly in love with telepaths. It had, by no means of coincidence, taken them a very long time to figure these things out about one another, but Erik had found that all to the better. Outside of Charles and Raven, Erik would consider Azazel his very best friend.

Erik’s desktop finally loads and he carefully types out his password with one hand - he’d taken the sling off for his stalking activities these past few nights, but the arm’s been aching since his nightmare so he’d strapped it up again this morning. Once he’s logged on, he sends Azazel the files and then pulls up his calendar. The earliest his immediate manager has free is 11. Erik books the timeslot before anyone else can grab it, and then slowly picks his way through typing a meeting request. He’ll take a half-day after that, he figures, and get the few outstanding items on his list taken care of before he leaves the city.

After maybe half an hour of attempting to work, Erik realizes his brain is fried. And anyway, it’s completely impractical to try to take notes with only his non-dominant hand. He doesn’t think Raven did it on purpose – injuring his dominant side – and probably it’s something that wouldn’t even occur to a shape shifter. Then again, he’s not sure she would have cared, either.

Erik sighs. He minimizes his real work and pulls up Google Maps instead. To cover the most territory across the country and have the highest chance of getting Charles’s wedding ring within Erik’s range of metal-sense, the interstate system is probably going to be his best bet. And Charles, for all that he professes to enjoy a good road trip, shares with Erik the instinctual longing for home. Erik doesn’t think Charles is still running. No, if Erik knows anything about Charles at all, he’s found a place to hide and he’s staying put. And odds are, that place he’s hiding isn’t too far off from an interstate somewhere.

“So what really happened to your arm?” Azazel asks after a while. Erik jumps slightly, and Azazel grins wickedly at him.

“My sister-in-law hit me with a bat,” Erik says, and he doesn’t know why he tells the truth except that he thinks Azazel will understand, and perhaps not judge Erik as harshly as he deserves. Azazel has done things he’s not proud of, as well.

“A _live_ bat?” Azazel says slowly, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Or was it dead already?”

“What?” Erik says, surprised, and then he realizes the mistake. “Oh. No. A _baseball_ bat.”

“Ah,” Azazel says, nodding thoughtfully. “I begin to see. So what did you do to deserve it?”

Erik laughs and it feels amazing. He can’t remember the last time he laughed at anything at all. “What makes you think it was me who did something?”

“I know you, Lehnsherr. You are not so innocent.”

Erik sobers abruptly. “You’re right,” he says after a moment. “It was all my fault. I… My husband left me. After I’d punched him.”

Azazel’s eyes narrow and Erik remembers abruptly how sharp and deadly this man’s tail can be. “You deserve the bat, then,” he says. He sounds certain about this, but he also sounds like maybe he does understand. 

“Yes,” Erik agrees. He did deserve it.

“What will you do?” Azazel asks.

“Find him,” Erik says simply. “And beg him to come home.”

“This is good,” Azazel says. “When do you leave?”

“Tonight. I have a meeting with management this morning about it.”

“Good,” Azazel repeats. “And if you have flat tire, you call and I will answer.”

Erik smiles. “Thank you… my friend.”

They fall back into silence then and it lasts until Erik has to leave for his meeting.

“Also,” Erik says as he’s struggling to lock his computer screen one-handedly. “Don’t touch my new keyboard while I’m away. I beat you out fair and square for it from requisitions. It had better be exactly where I left it when I come back.”

Azazel smiles devilishly. “I make no promises.”

XXXXX

After Erik leaves work, the only person he has left to see in this city is Raven. Out of everyone, Raven is the most likely to have information on Charles, but she’s also the least likely to ever tell him anything. Raven has never been afraid of Erik the way so many others are, and Erik blames it on the way they’d met. They’d all been little more than children, then, and Erik had been so broken and lost, his life’s mission completed at long last and unsure where to go from there. Charles had been there, of course, and Charles was already Erik’s reason for breathing, even at that early stage. Raven’s impression of Erik couldn’t have been a good one, not with all that hanging over his head. But he thinks maybe Charles has softened her views over time. Raven now considers him, if Erik’s any judge, a little rough around the edges, and wholly unworthy of her brother, but a good man underneath.

Erik wishes he could be so sure of that last part himself. He doesn’t think he’d been a good man before he’d met Charles – and before Charles had shown him what love felt like – and he doesn’t think he’s one now, either, even if he no longer wants to watch the world burn at his feet.

Still, Raven is the sister Erik’s never had, and he wants to make his peace with her before he goes. She lets him in when she knocks (a good sign), but then she crosses her arms over her chest and glares (not a good sign at all).

“I won’t apologize for hitting you,” she says straight off.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Erik says. “I deserved it. I deserved worse. You went easy on me.”

“Damn right I did!” Raven says. She’s not truly angry, Erik can see, and a part of her – probably the same Charles-inspired part that tempers Erik – is feeling guilty for what she did in her anger. “I’d do it again.”

“I’m counting on that,” Erik tells her. He really is. “But if it ever happens again, go for the head. Promise me. For his sake and for mine. I never want to wake up in that reality.”

Raven swallows, taken aback. “You’re serious,” she says slowly, slightly unsure. “You really want me to promise you that.”

“Deadly serious,” Erik tells her. “I won’t bring them back here into harm’s way.”

“Fine,” she agrees. Erik breathes out a sigh of relief.

“So you’re going to try to find them, then?” she asks, as if there was ever any doubt of that. “And what if they don’t want to come?”

Erik swallows hard. “They’ll come,” he says. “There’s no ‘what if’.”

Raven doesn’t quite believe him, maybe. “He left for a reason, you know. He won’t come back if nothing’s changed.”

“ _I’ve changed_ ,” Erik snaps in a flash of sudden anger, and Raven raises an eyebrow like he’s just proven her point. “I _will_ change,” he amends.

“Well, you’d better do something,” Raven says. “You know how stubborn my brother can be.”

“That makes two of us,” Erik says, and if only that weren’t half the problem.

“Can you tell me,” he says after a moment. “Are they at least safe, wherever they are?”

“Yes,” Raven says softly, frowning. “They’re safe.”

“Are they happy?” Erik asks. He’s not sure he wants to know. What will he do if Charles is happier somewhere else without Erik? How can he justify this quest if not to restore Charles’s happiness?

Raven gives him a pitying look. “Of course they’re not happy, you asshole. You broke his heart! And the baby feels that. How could anyone be happy like that?”

“I’m going to fix it,” Erik tells her, and himself. “I’m going to fix everything. Charles will come back and the baby will learn to love me. Everything will be better.”

“Wait,” Raven says, startled. “What? Of course the baby loves you, don’t be ridiculous!”

Erik can’t talk about this – not with her and possibly not at all. So instead he says, “I’ll bring them back safe. You’ll see.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Raven says.

XXXXX

Erik travels light. He has a few changes of clothes, his toothbrush, and the atlas from Charles’s office. He has everything he needs. He’s going to take the I-80 across the country, then the I-40/I-81 back. If one of those roads doesn’t lead him to Charles, Erik will start the whole process over on a different road. It isn’t going to be easy, but a quest never is.

Before he leaves, Erik dials Charles’s number once more. He holds his breath as it rings four times, and then the voicemail clicks on. But this time, Erik does leave a message. It’s foolish, maybe, and sentimental in a way he doesn’t contemplate – a shared memory between them from a time when they’d had more freedom to go where they would. It’s also a warning: if Charles really doesn’t want to be found, this is his chance to go underground.

Erik says, “ _There is no journey upon this earth that a man may not make if he sets his heart to it_.” Then he hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for very, very brief suicide ideation. 
> 
> Quote from _King Solomon's Mines_.


	9. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing: everyone should take a minute and go check out this awesome-cool [cover art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8100295) by the amazing [avictoriangirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl) who, through some sort of magic managed to work out pretty specifically which section of I-80 I was writing about and should have **_all_** the kudos!
> 
> Second thing: I apologize for how long this update took. Not to make this all about me, but I'm trying to balance grad school with my full time job and my *shudders* social responsibilities, and sometimes no matter how much I want to write Charles and Erik being intense about each other (and I do, I always do), something has to get put on the back burner. At the very least, I think the next update should be out fairly quickly.

Charles wakes up on Friday morning feeling crampy and congested. His mouth tastes like pennies. It’s appalling. He’s torn between wanting to roll over and go back to sleep and wanting to get up and scrub his mouth out. David ends up making the decision for him by starting to fuss.

“Hey, now,” Charles says and goes to pick him up. He must accidentally pinch him or something of that nature in the upswing, however, because David goes from agitated fussing to full-blown screaming near instantaneously. 

_Breathe_ , Charles tells himself, feeling his shoulders tighten in the way that's become so very familiar. _Just breathe_. Of course, it is much harder to breathe when half of one’s respiratory system is blocked off. Dear god, he's become a mouth breather. Oh, and the world is spinning slightly, perhaps he should be giving more attention to this matter of breathing. He’d sit down, but of course David will only calm by being walked and bounced.

“Oh I know, sweetheart,” Charles says, and he _does_ , because neither of them slept well. David hasn’t been going down easily these past two days, and Charles fears it’s only going to get worse before it gets better. He’s on the edge of a leap week, Charles would bet anything on that. It’s not all on David’s end, either. Despite how deeply bone-tired Charles has been, he’d tossed and turned all night in discomfort, alternating between a vague chill and hot flashes.

The 4 am phone call that startled them both from sleep hadn’t helped matters at all, either. Charles had reached for it automatically and had been a split second from answering when his exhausted brain had finally registered the name on the caller ID. And even after that, he’ll admit, he’d had a moment of weakness where he wanted nothing more than to answer anyway. A part of him hoped Erik would leave a message. Just to hear his voice right now would be a huge comfort, even if it would hurt more in the end. God, Charles misses him. And it’s only been less than a week. He’d known it before: leaving isn’t the hard part. The hard part is staying gone.

Eventually David is calmed by Charles’s very-practiced combination of walking, bouncing, shooshing, and projecting calm. And trying not to cry himself, but that one is usually reserved for the occasions when none of the first few things work. There are going to be a lot of those this week if David really is starting another developmental leap.

David doesn't object to being put down in his exerciser while Charles showers and tries to brush the taste of pennies out of his mouth (a not entirely successful endeavor, it turns out) but he does object to being left there for longer than five minutes and the fussing starts up again before Charles even has time to rinse. David wants held all the time lately, and for all that Charles knows that's normal for infants his age, it is rather trying. Thank God for the baby wrap or Charles would never be able to get anything done.

“Just a minute, darling,” Charles says, and makes shooshing noises in David’s direction as he breaks speed records in dressing. The baby wrap takes longer to get set up, but thankfully David calms as soon as Charles picks him up again.

“Don't let me breathe on you, Mäuschen,” Charles says as he works first one, then the other of David's chubby legs into the wrap. “The last thing we need is you catching what I've got.” He's been lucky so far: David hasn't been truly sick yet, apart from a few low-grade fevers here and there. The leaps are hard enough without adding a stuffed nose or, dear God, an earache to the mix.

After David’s in the sling and babbling wetly into Charles’s collarbone, Charles pokes around in the kitchen, surveying his options. He hasn’t felt well in a few weeks at least, and really, he should have seen this head cold coming; things have been tasting _off_ for ages now. He doesn’t find anything in the cupboards that he thinks he’d be able to force down, so he makes the decision he’s been making every morning this week (and sometimes in the afternoons, too): he slips on his shoes and grabs up his wallet and the diaper bag.

There’s no one at the counter when Charles comes into the diner, so he pops his head around the kitchen door and calls hello to Kat. They’ve become something like friends in the past week, not least because Charles apparently left his ability to cook for himself back in New York. He’s getting lazy in his old age, it seems. But he finds a way to justifies it to himself. He does like to support local businesses, after all, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the money. 

Erik would never put up with this sort of extravagance, but he’d never turn down a free meal either, torn as he is between the poverty of his early childhood and the starvation trauma of his year with Shaw. On the other hand, Charles knows that if Erik is thinking rationally, he’d of course put feeding David (and by proxy, Charles) as his main priority, no matter what it costs. He’d proven that during Charles’s pregnancy when he’d finally gotten over the morning sickness and started being hungry all the time. In those days, Erik had more than once put on a set, determined face and pushed his plate in Charles’s direction. If that’s not love, Charles doesn’t know what is. That's all contingent on Erik’s rationality, however, and that factor does seem to be inversely proportional to the amount of baby-related stress pushed on the both of them.

“Oh, hello,” Kat Summers says, looking up from her list of what might be inventory to find Charles in her doorway.

“Good morning,” Charles says, putting on a smile. He pushes all thoughts of Erik to the back of his mind. Now is not the time to be maudlin. “Just you today, Kat?” Scott is in school, of course, but Alex is nowhere to be seen, and neither is the elderly waitress Kat employs.

“Slow day,” Kat explains, and she smiles. She really is very lovely. “I sent everyone home. You here for food or conversation?”

“A little of each,” Charles admits. “And you’re so very good at both.” He winks.

Kat laughs and a light blush spreads across her cheeks. “Grab a seat. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Charles takes a table near the counter to save her from making the trip to the booth he usually favors in the back. There are only a few other people eating and he recognizes none of them. He really must become better about getting to know his neighbors. That will be his mission for today, he decides: if David cooperates, they’ll take a turn about the town and go into some of the local businesses, meet the proprietors. 

“How are the boys?” Charles asks when Kat appears at his table. Children are a natural bonding point between them, and Charles really does have an interest in the welfare of the Summers brothers.

“Oh you know,” she says, fond and exasperated both. “It’s the usual chaos. Scott is all worked up about the project he’s doing for the school’s open house in a few weeks, and Alex is having boy troubles again. Or so I assume. He won’t talk about it.”

“Well, of course,” Charles agrees wryly. “Because you’ve never had boy troubles at all. Never been a teenage, either, I suspect.”

“Exactly,” she says, lips quirking. “Oh, hello, honey,” she adds in a cooing voice as David finally deigns to acknowledge her presence. He waves a chubby fist at her, though not quite on purpose. “And how are you today, little mister?”

“Clingy,” Charles answers for him. “And cranky.”

“Uh oh,” she says. “Coming up on the three C’s, huh? Bet he’s hitting some milestones this week. Has he rolled over on his own yet?”

“Once or twice. But those may have been flukes. I don’t think he actually meant to do it, just rolled up onto his side and went too far.”

“Well, give it time,” Kat says, touching David’s sticky fist briefly. “He’ll get there. Does he get bedtime separation anxiety? Alex had it so bad, but Scott was a little easier.”

“Nothing extreme yet, though I have a feeling it’s coming.” Charles frowns a little bit and, because they’re friends and he knows he can trust her, he adds, “I think he misses his daddy.”

Kat frowns. They haven’t talked about their respective baby-daddies. They haven’t talked about much, to be honest, outside of their children and the town and food. He’d mentioned his sexuality in passing when she’d become uneasy talking about Alex’s problems around town, but he hadn’t brought up Erik and she hadn’t asked.

“Is he the one who…,” she starts tentatively. She brings her hand to her cheekbone, just underneath her eye, and Charles knows what she means. His black eye has only just healed enough to have turned a sickly green color. 

“Yes,” Charles says, and his stomach clenches with suppressed heartbreak. He pushes the emotion viciously back down. He misses Erik and he’ll always miss Erik but there will be time to brood on it later once David is asleep and can’t be traumatized by Charles’s pain.

Charles hadn’t exactly hidden his black eye that first day he’d been in the diner, but he’d directed people’s gaze to the baby quite easily – people always want to look more at the baby than Charles anyway. Well, except those Christian girls who had hoped Charles might be on the menu for Sunday brunch, but they hadn’t _wanted_ to see the bruise, so Charles had made sure their eyes slipped right over it. That had only lasted a few days, though, and then Charles decided he’d had enough of hiding, thank you very much. Let the world think what they would.

Kat’s thoughts are very sympathetic. She doesn’t quite know what to say, so she smiles sadly. Her Christopher never would have, she thinks, but she doesn’t know if she could have left him if he had, either. But her Christopher had been so sweet, just like her dear Scotty. Now her Alex, it pains her to think it, but she wouldn’t rule anything out from him. She’d like to think he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but she knows how his temper is, and Lord knows she’s tried everything to help him. Teenagers are a riddle no one ever told her how to solve.

“Well, anyway,” she says after a moment. “What can I get you? Are you still feeling under the weather? You sound a little stuffed up.”

“More than a little,” Charles agrees. “I don’t think I’ll even be able to taste anything. Whatever you have on tap is fine. Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf.”

Kat thinks about Charles’s accent and his odd expressions, and she laughs. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

She thinks as she walks away, _How could anyone ever want to hurt that man? He’s got to be the sweetest guy ever. World’s best father, that’s for sure._

Charles fixes his eyes on the tabletop and swallows hard. There it is again, this expectation that he must be perfect. He gets it, he does. He knows how he comes across to people: competent and brilliant and nurturing and stable. If only that were the truth. If only he didn’t feel like he was drowning so much of the time. And David, poor David, he deserves so much better. He deserves the perfection Charles tries so hard to fake.

Erik is the only one who’s ever seen past the façade. And he’d hated Charles for trying to keep pretending, by the end. Charles could feel his resentment and his anger. But Charles, for all that he’d tried, has never been strong enough to fix what’s broken in Erik. He’d thought he had, for a while, when it had just been the two of them and Erik had been so calm and happy. But whatever peace had ever been between them had shattered with a baby’s cries, and Charles could do nothing to stop it.

 _What will I tell you?_ he asks David’s uncomprehending mind. _What will I say when you get old enough to ask about him? Will I be able to tell you how I failed him, how I let him get the worst of himself?_

David looks up at Charles, all chubby cheeks and huge toothless grin. “A-dadadada,” he says and Charles smiles back at him.

“I suppose we’ll figure it out together. Do you want to try some banana again? Maybe you’ll even get it in your mouth this time and not your hair.” Not likely, but Charles can always hope. It’s the little victories in life, after all, and everything else just has to be background noise.

XXXXX

By the time Charles has had his breakfast (eggs and toast and orange juice to try to get the metal taste out of his mouth) David is fussing again. He won’t take the pacifier, keeps spitting it out. He’s tired, Charles can tell, and he’s fighting it. A walk might help, and it really is a lovely day out. He calls a thank you to Kat and leaves her a twenty on the table.

Outside, David needs a few minutes of a rocking walk, but then his breathing evens out and his head droops against Charles’s chest. Charles’s shoulders have tightened up again, he realizes, and he has to make a concentrated effort to calm his breathing. Without David crying in his ear, it is significantly easier to make himself relax. The sun is shining, and that helps.

He and David have walked to the center of town a few times this past week and they’ve sat in the small grassy space there that can’t really be called a park. They haven’t been in many of the stores yet, however, and Charles decides to start there. There’s the grocer, of course, and a beauty parlor next to that and a tanning salon on the opposite side. There’s also an ice cream shop, another two restaurants, and three bars. There isn’t a chain restaurant in sight, though that’s probably less a stylistic choice and more the economics of a small town.

Charles makes a stop in each of the shops and the restaurants, grabbing up paper take-out menus when they’re available and otherwise making small talk with the waiters and shopkeepers. They’re all lovely humans, for the most part, but none of them particularly jump out at Charles as someone he might want to be close to, not the way Hank McCoy had. Charles wonders idly if it says more about him or about Hank that they’ve become fast friends despite nearly a decade between them.

At the far end of town, there’s a small public library, but the cross old librarian gives David a suspicious look as though he might just make a noise or touch a book with his sticky baby fingers. David is indeed stirring out of sleep by then, so Charles beats a hasty retreat back out onto the sidewalk.

“Hello Mäuschen,” Charles coos quietly. David looks up at him but doesn’t really see him, still half-asleep and eyes unfocused. “Have a good nap?”

David doesn’t say anything, but he does pull his pacifier out of his mouth to suck on his fingers instead. He feels content, and so does Charles as he steers them back toward the apartment. He decides at the last minute to pop into Logan’s shop and say hello. They’ve seen each other in passing a few times since Charles moved in, but Logan doesn’t seem to be much of a talker and Charles is almost always midway through some baby-related mission so a few words of greeting have been all that’s passed between them.

The bell jingles when Charles comes into the shop, and the noise gets David’s attention, though of course he can’t tell where it’s coming from. His concept of distance is a little bit shaky right now, but the books all assure Charles that will change once this next developmental leap is over.

Logan is behind the counter filling out what look to be customer receipts – by hand! – and chewing on his unlit cigar.

“You know,” Charles starts conversationally, leaning one hip against the counter, “if you invested in a POS system, it would make your life a lot easier. My husband’s company...” He falters slightly, then rallies. “My husband’s company makes really decent software. I’m sure they have something that would suit your needs.”

Logan grunts and doesn’t look up.

“Or maybe that’s too big of a step,” Charles concedes. “Maybe we could start smaller. I’ve seen some small businesses where they create a template in Excel and print receipts that way.”

He doesn’t even get a grunt of acknowledgement this time.

“Or perhaps smaller still,” Charles tries. “Have you heard of the typewriter?”

Logan’s pen comes to a sudden stop, and for a moment Charles thinks he’s gone too far. Logan’s slippery mind makes it difficult for Charles to peek at his thoughts the way he would with anyone else. Logan takes a deep breath through his nose, then looks up at Charles with considering eyes.

“You need something, bub?” he says.

“Oh, plenty,” Charles agrees, and his voice comes out low and flirty, quite without his permission. “The question is, what could you give me?”

Logan snorts. “Roof over your head ain’t good enough?”

“It leaks,” Charles lies.

Logan damn near smiles. “We sell buckets,” he says, angling his head toward the rows of shelves. “Help yourself.”

“Hmm. Quite generous,” Charles agrees.

Then Logan asks, “How’s the babies?”

Charles doesn’t miss the plural but he doesn’t know quite what to make of it, either. He hasn’t had any other children in the apartment at all, but perhaps Logan is referring to the toddler Charles had bounced on his knee at the laundromat yesterday while his mother switched the washing over. Or perhaps, and this does seem more likely, Logan is being playful and asking about Charles himself. The phrasing seems odd, but what else could he possibly mean?

“David’s fine,” he says. “A bit fussy now and then, but doing well overall. I hope we’re not too loud?”

“Nah,” Logan says. “Thick walls. And not many customers.”

“Ah,” Charles says, and then doesn’t know what else to say. “Well, I’d better get David upstairs. It was lovely talking to you again.”

Logan grunts and goes back to his receipts. Just like that Charles has ceased to interest him.

David reaches up and grabs a lock Charles’s hair. He yanks hard. Charles’s eyes water.

“All right, all right,” Charles says. “Let’s go up.”

XXXXX

Charles changes David and then they play with the crinkly book until David gets fussy again. He’s due for a feeding, so Charles pulls his sweater up over his head. He envies women their blouses for easy access, but at least he’s able to take full advantage of the nursing tank top – and thank God for the stocky women for whom this size of shirt was actually intended. For all the changes his body had made to accommodate David (and they were many: hips and breasts and the damn birthing canal which had thankfully healed up within three weeks and left no trace after), Charles is not thin or especially curvy. Thank God, then, that there are women out there who aren’t those things, either, and that those women require nursing tops all the same.

David, true to form, feels Charles’s stomach cramps and refuses to latch until Charles digs up a memory of being a bit hungry and pushes it at him. David latches almost immediately after that, and the first touch of his mouth is slightly uncomfortable. Charles blinks, but the latch feels fine. His nipples have been are a bit sore today in a way they haven’t been since just after David was born and they were still learning the finer points of breastfeeding together. This new soreness is odd, but not overly concerning. What’s more concerning is how David seems to enjoy pinching while he eats, but there’s nothing to be done for that, either, so Charles just scowls and lets him get on with it.

David’s feeling sleepy after he eats, so he and Charles go into the bedroom and lie together in Charles’s bed for a while. Amazingly, David falls right to sleep with no backchat. It’s time for his long nap, so Charles lets himself drift, too. He’s woken, once again, by the phone ringing, and this time he’s conscious enough to make a dive for it and turn off the ringer volume before the noise wakes the baby. 

He sees the name this time, too, and he can feel himself getting annoyed. Why does Erik only call when they’re sleeping? Charles sets the phone back down on the nightstand so he won’t be tempted to answer it, but when the voicemail alert beeps a few minutes later, he can’t help but to listen to it.

The message hits him hard. Erik’s voice, low and rough, makes Charles wants to see him, to hold him. He sounds good. He sounds _determined_. And he’s coming after them, there’s no other explanation for the quote. Erik must have known Charles would recognize Haggard – they’d had a copy, after all, in the pile of weathered books that served as entertainment on that first months-long road trip they’d taken to hunt down Shaw.

Charles doesn’t know how to feel about it all. He’d known Erik wouldn’t sit idly by and do nothing, but he hadn’t expected a warning, either. For a warning it must be. And that’s… good, Charles supposes. It’s good that Erik is giving Charles the chance to run. The person Charles had been before he met Erik would have taken Erik up on his offer and run for all he was worth, but Charles is that man no longer. If Erik’s given Charles anything, it’s conviction. Charles likes it here and he’s damn well going to stick around. He’ll simply have to ensure by any means necessary that Erik does not find this place until Charles is ready to make up his mind about what their future should hold.

One thing is for sure: Charles is not ready to make up his mind now. Thinking about what Erik did – what Erik may be capable of doing – still makes Charles’s pulse race in the phantom terror left over from his childhood. He needs time to calm himself, to move past the emotion and consider his options as a man of science and logic. If Charles ever does go back to Erik, and he’s not now sure that can ever happen, he’s going to need proof Erik has resolved the underlying issue that caused him to lash out like that. On the other hand, if Charles does not go back to Erik, it will not be a decision Erik accepts with ease; as much as the thought puts lead in his stomach, Charles knows it may become necessary to alter Erik’s memories at that point. And for that Charles does not yet have the fortitude. 

If Charles were to see Erik before he’s made his decision, that choice would very certainly be influenced by Erik’s presence. Charles is not so strong in his conviction that his love for Erik wouldn’t get in the way of making the right choice. That means the decision must come first, and only then will Charles allow Erik to find them.

Charles has to be on guard. His telepathy has considerable potential of distance: anything within his ten foot resting radius is fair game at all times, but with great concentration, he can stretch his senses to nearly 250 miles, though doing so gives him searing headaches and he can generally only touch well-known minds. Erik’s mind is the most well-known of all, of course, and Charles knows he’ll be able to sense his movement anywhere within those bounds.

Charles has the power here. Erik will _not_ find this place. Not yet. Not before Charles is ready to make his decision.

XXXXX

By the time David wakes an hour later, Charles is going mad with nervous energy. He hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after Erik’s cryptic message. He’d tried to read, but his mind had kept wandering. In the end, he’d found himself pacing and fretting.

What he needs is a distraction. He needs to make up his mind about how to handle his relationship with Erik, of course, but one can’t spend all one’s time in contemplation. Charles needs a hobby or a project. He needs friends, maybe. The problem is, for all his likability and boyish charm, Charles doesn’t really know how to make permanent friendships. The only people he really sees on regularly back in the city are Erik and Raven, and they’re both family. It’s true that Erik had initially stuck around long enough for their friendship to deepen into something more, but that’s an isolated case, an outlier.

Or perhaps, Charles thinks suddenly, it isn't an outlier. What if it’s a case study that Charles can replicate? He doesn’t need another husband, he’s got one of those too many at the moment as it is, but if he were to treat the beginning of his and Erik’s relationship as a model for how to make other friends… there might be potential in this.

With Erik, Charles recalls, there had been a spark. It wasn’t love at first sight or anything so trite, but Charles had known from the first moment their minds touched that he _wanted_ Erik. There had just been something there, and Charles had _known_. He’d known he was going to be with Erik in the same way he’d known he and Hank were going to get along well. Perhaps, then, given that parallel, first instant is the key. If Charles were to pursue only those friends he was predisposed to like already, his percentage of well-developed friendships would likely be significantly higher.

It’s not so easy done as said, however. The fact of the matter is, Hank, for all his brilliance, is a very young man. Charles has no designs on his virtue, of course, but he still knows how important it is to Hank’s social development that he interact with others of his own age. People like Alex Summers, perhaps, though Hank’s obvious crush might make things more awkward between them. But Alex isn’t the only option: for all that this is a very small town, there are other teenagers. Perhaps there are even other _mutant_ teenagers. It seems likely, actually, considering what Scott said about other people with gifts that first day they met.

Then he gets an idea. A brilliant idea. Charles gets a wonderful, brilliant idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, that is a Grinch reference.


	10. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Long chapter?
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for all their support. You guys are so awesome!

Charles spends his Friday afternoon plotting. He’s going to need board games, he thinks, and children’s books, and a television, one or two computers… oh a gaming console, of course! A few sportsy things, probably, but Charles’s sporting experience has always been rather limited to running and a bit of rugby those years he spent at Oxford, and he doesn’t know what the children here would like. A basketball, maybe – that seems to be the town’s premier sport – and perhaps some free weights. Oh a punching bag would probably be a good investment, as well, especially if Charles can convince Alex Summers to join the program; maybe he can work out some of that anger and save himself the heartache it will cause later on in life.

Oh, and furniture! They’re going to need a sofa, at the very least, and perhaps more than one. They’ll need tables and chairs and some type of desk for the computers to sit on. A bookshelf for the alternative library, where he can put books the school and little public library might not have: introductions for kids to sexuality and sex education and mutations, for example. And of course he’ll get some adventure books, some teen romance, some historical fiction; you can’t go wrong with those.

But where to get all of these things, that’s the question of the hour. The electronics he can get from Erik’s company website (he likes the way they put things together, though Erik calls him a snob for it). There’s a sports store in the town where Hank does his chem labs that could probably supply most everything on that front. The books he’ll have to order online, of course, and he’ll have to see Logan about a postal address for this apartment.

The furniture is slightly more of a problem. There are definitely no furniture store in this town or any near it. There’s a superstore in that college town, of course, but they won’t have the selection he’s looking for. Probably the closest real furniture store would be Pittsburgh. Not too far a drive, and Charles wouldn’t mind seeing the sights there. The city of bridges, isn’t it? And Charles thinks he’s heard they have an Ikea there. Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? All those bright colors and sleek modern designs would definitely draw the children in.

“What do you think, Mäuschen?” Charles asks. They’re on the sofa in the living room, and Charles has one hand balancing David on his lap while the other scrolls through an online Ikea catalog. “Do you think they’d like this orange chair? Seems a big gaudy to me.”

David says, “babababa,” and grabs his foot in his chubby fist.

“Yes, you’re right,” Charles says. He grabs David’s other foot and wiggles his tiny little toes. “Best not to get anything with too light colors. Stains, and all that.”

David smiles and lets go of his foot to grab Charles’s shirt sleeve instead. Charles adjusts David’s position on his lap as he starts to slip sideways slightly. “You’re very handsome now that you’ve quit fussing,” Charles tells him. “You’re going to look just like your daddy.” Maybe not _just_ like, but close enough. 

“You know, darling, if you were a bit older, you’d be more help with this.” Charles just has no idea what children would like. Oh, he’s got a general idea, he does pay attention when he feels children get excited, but he’s got no sense of style, Raven tells him so all the time.

Hmm, there’s an idea.

Raven picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, love,” Charles says. “How have you been? Hope you haven’t gotten into any trouble.”

“We talked three days ago.” Raven’s tone is dry. “When would I have had time to get into trouble?”

“Well, you never know,” Charles says. “Listen, I’m furnishing a youth hall for mutant children.”

“Do they have one of those where you are? It sounded kinda tiny the way you described it. How many mutant kids could you possibly have there?”

“Quite a few, apparently,” Charles tells her. “I don’t have numbers yet but I’ve run into at least a handful. I’m planning on going to the school’s open house in a few weeks and scoping out the children.”

“You’re scoping out _children_?” Raven says slowly. “And you don’t think their parents will have a problem with that? They’re going to think you’re a creep.”

“Oh, they won’t notice me until I’m ready.” Charles waves a dismissive hand that Raven of course doesn’t see. “But that’s not the point, anyway. The point is, I’m stuck on the furnishing step. I need help designing something children will enjoy.”

“And you think I’d know? Charles, I don’t actually have any kids. You know that, right?”

“But you are quite fashionable,” Charles challenges.

“Thank you,” Raven says, pleased. “I’m glad you noticed. I work hard for this look. But I can’t help you. Sorry.”

She doesn’t sound very sorry and Charles tells her so.

“Well what do you expect me to do, Charles? I don’t know anything about kids. I didn’t take a million and a half development classes in school like you did. If you wanted me to design a bar or a dance hall or hell, a tea room, you know I’d have your back. Because I actually go to those places and know what would look good there. I don’t go to kids’ groups. Why don’t you ask, I don’t know, some actual kids, maybe?”

“Oh that’s brilliant!” Charles says. If he’s designing for kids of course he should have the kids do the design work themselves. “I’ve got just the kids for the job. Thank you, darling.”

Raven chuckles. “Glad to be of assistance.” She hesitates and then adds, “Have you heard from Erik?”

“He left me a message. I think he’s on the hunt.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “He said as much to me. I… Charles, I really think he wants to change. He made me promise him something pretty terrible. I don’t think he would have done that if he weren’t serious.”

“He’s always serious,” Charles says. He sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “If nothing else, Erik is always very serious. I’m just not sure I can trust him. Not just yet.”

“Well, you’d better go underground, then,” Raven says. “Because I think he might have been headed your way. And he’s not going to give up until he finds you.”

“He won’t find me until I’m ready.” Of that, Charles is sure.

“Well, keep your senses open, just in case.”

They say their goodbyes after that and Raven hangs up.

Charles lets his phone fall onto the sofa beside him and reaches with both hands to turn David around so they’re face to face.

“She’s right, of course,” Charles tells him. “We need to be wary. Let’s look for him, together, shall we?”

He gently brings his mind into full contact with David’s. He doesn’t usually do this, just skims David’s color-thoughts off the top of his head and projects his own thoughts and emotions back. Even with Erik, whose mind he knows best after his own, he saves this trick for their most intimate moments.

David’s mind is soft, still developing, but the trust Charles can feel from him is awe-inspiring. He’s holding this child in his hands, literally, and David trusts him to do it. There’s also something else, something yearning in the back of his mind for a silvery touch and the smell of hot metal. Erik.

“Yes,” Charles says quietly, keeping his mind in David’s at the same time he expands his consciousness slowly outward to the east. “I miss him, too.”

David doesn’t make any movement or sound that would indicate he feels the slow expanding of their world, but Charles is locked into his emotions and knows that he can. So many minds, all around them, but Charles blocks those out as he searches for the one they want. 

And then, there he is, driving west and feeling annoyed with the other drivers. It’s such a familiar relief to be touching Erik’s mind again. Charles can feel the tension drain from his body, even as he keeps his senses projected. He has to be careful, can’t let Erik know he’s there.

“So near,” he murmurs. “Do you feel him, David? Can you feel your daddy?”

And David can. His silver thoughts come bubbling to the surface and he starts to babble happily. He wants his daddy, wants the silver presence and the metal smell and the strong arms, and Charles has to gently pull his mind back from both David and Erik before he can start to cry. Those aren’t his emotions, or at least not entirely his emotions. They want the same thing, all three of them, and that’s to be back together again. But they can’t be, not now and maybe not ever.

David’s mouth screws up when he can no longer feel his parents mentally. Charles feels him trying to reach out again, but he hasn’t the coordination, not just yet. Charles sends him _love-hug-warm_ and he settles.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says, and he is. He’s so very sorry about all of this and how much it’s hurting all of them.

Erik is maybe three hours out and headed this way. If he were to pass this town on the interstate, he would definitely be close enough to feel the metal of Charles’s wedding ring. There are two options: Charles can get rid of his wedding ring or he can leave town for a few hours while Erik passes. The smart option would be the first one. Erik _made_ this ring. He would recognize it anywhere. As long as Charles still wears it, he’s at risk. He should get rid of it.

He takes the second option instead.

“What do you say to a road trip, David?”

They could get away, go to the city for the night. They could see the orchestra, maybe, or a play. Of course, David wouldn’t be interested in either of those things, probably couldn’t keep quiet for them – not this week, anyway. But maybe there’s something else they can do.

Or, there’s a thought, maybe they could go furniture shopping!

They couldn’t make the trip alone, of course. Charles still has no idea what teenagers might consider cool. He needs an actual teenager along to help him with stylistic choices. And if anything heavy needs lifted, he’ll need an extra few sets of hands. But who does Charles know that would be willing to take an impromptu road trip with him?

 _Hank McCoy_ , Charles thinks at him. Hank startles from where he sits in his English literature class doodling a double helix. 

_Professor?_ he thinks, confused and a little worried. _Is something wrong?_

_Oh no, not at all, dear boy. I was simply wondering if you’d care for a bit of a road trip after school. Only if you’re not busy, of course. I need a few strapping young people along for a trip I’m making to Ikea._

_Ikea?_ Hanks asks. _That’s random. Is he looking for colorful furniture to paint himself as even more of an eccentric?_

Charles doesn’t think he was supposed to have heard that last thought, and he smiles.

_I was thinking of going down tonight, seeing the sights a bit and staying the night. Then tomorrow we could do the shopping. What do you say?_

Hank hesitates, and Charles plays his trump card.

_I was hoping to invite along the Summers boys, as well._

_Alex_ , Hank thinks with that familiar rush of longing and jealousy and embarrassment. _Okay_ , he thinks. _Let me clear it with my parents. What time do you want to leave?_

Charles judges Erik’s distance and has to pinch himself to keep from going too far into his mind. He misses that connection like he’d miss a limb, but if he stays too long or strays too deep, Erik will notice and then this whole adventure will be for nothing.

 _Three-thirty_ , Charles tells him. Erik won’t be passing the town until 5:30 or six, and that will give them plenty of time to get away. _Thank you, Hank. I really appreciate this. I assure you it’s for a good cause._

And Hank, the dear sweet soul, he believes him entirely.

XXXXX

“Back again?” Kat Summers teases. “You missed the lunch rush.”

She's just locking up the diner as Charles and David approach.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Charles says. “You know how much I enjoy lunch.” She doesn’t, actually, because he’s been sick since she’s known him and she’s only ever seen him pick at his food.

“Actually,” he continues. “I was hoping you could help me with something else.”

“Sure,” she says. “What’s up?”

“Well, there are two things, actually. The first – oh, damn.” David’s dropped his pacifier. Kat looks like she wants to pick it up for him, but she’s got a takeout container in one hand and a sack of potatoes in the other, so Charles puts a hand on David’s back to steady him and together they bend down to pick it back up. Charles’s lower back twinges painfully, and he has to breathe through it a moment before he can stand back up.

“I don’t miss that,” Kat says, though whether she means the dropped pacifier or the back pain, he doesn’t know. “You know they make a binky clip, right? Clips right onto their clothes so even if they spit it out, it’ll just hang around.”

“That would be useful,” Charles agrees. He wipes the pacifier on his shirt and then pushes it back into David’s mouth. David immediately brings his hand up, curls it around the pacifier and yanks. Charles gives him a narrow look and holds a hand out. Sure enough, when David lets go, the pacifier falls again, this time right into Charles’s waiting palm.

“That’s it,” he says. “You’ve lost pacifier privileges.” He puts the passy back into the diaper bag.

“Anyway,” he says, over David’s babbling. “I’m in the market for some sort of large gathering space, somewhere a bunch of kids could congregate and not cause any problems. Would you happen to know of anything like that?”

Kat considers. “Well,” she says slowly. “There’s an empty building on Maple that was a gym for a couple of years before it went under. The people who owned it moved out of town, and I’m pretty sure they sold it before they left. Might have been to the MacTaggerts.”

“Excellent! Do you know where I could find them?”

“Their youngest teaches up at the school. I don’t think I have her number, but it would probably be in the phone book.”

“Excellent,” Charles says again. “That’s brilliantly helpful! I don’t know what I’d do without you, Kat.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d manage,” she says wryly. “But I’m happy to help any way I can.”

“If that’s the case, I’d like to ask another favor,” Charles says, and this is going to be the hard sell. “You see, I’m looking to start a small youth group of sorts for children who are, ah, gifted, if you follow me. Somewhere for them to hang out together or join in group activities. I’ve seen a few of them here and there in the city, but the fact is there just aren’t great resources for special children, and I think giving them a sense of solidarity would really aid their development.”

A hot rush of emotion wells up in Kat as she thinks of her children and how alone they are, despite her best efforts. She doesn't ask what interest he has in the whole affair, and she doesn't ask how he found out her boys. She thinks that if her boys have trusted him with Alex's secret, they must have had a good reason. “Yes, of course,” she says at once. “We could definitely use that in this town. What can I do to help? Do you need donations?”

Charles blinks in surprise. “Oh, no. Nothing like that! We have a private sponsor who should be able to cover all our needs. We’re quite covered for funds. What we don’t have is any equipment. We have the budget to buy everything we’ll need, but it’s the actual buying that’s the problem. You see, I want this space to be appealing to teenagers, and for that to happen, I’m going to need teenagers to help me pick out the fittings.”

“And I happen to have two,” Kat says, filling in the blanks. “I see. Well, Alex is picking up Scott from school right about now, but if you wanted to walk me home, I’m sure we’ll meet them there. You can ask them yourself.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, and holds out an arm for Kat to lead the way.

“Where were you thinking of buying from? We don’t have much selection around here, you might have noticed.”

“I have indeed,” Charles says. “I was actually going to order quite a few things online, once I speak to Logan about a mailing address. But for furniture, I was thinking Ikea.”

“Oh, kids love that stuff!” Kat says. “We get a catalog from them now and then and the boys go nuts picking out all the stuff they’d buy if we were rich.”

“Well, I hope that will make them more likely to drop by, then.”

“I’m sure it will,” she agrees. “When are you planning on buying?”

And here’s the hard part. “Well, tomorrow actually. I’ve got business taking me out of town tonight already, and I thought I might kill two birds with one stone and stop by Ikea first thing tomorrow before heading home. I was thinking, if you approved of course, that your boys might like to ride along. It would only be for the night, of course, and I’d be sure to get them home safe in plenty of time for the Sunday rush.”

“Oh,” Kat says, taken aback. “I didn’t realize it would be so soon.”

Her first instinct is to say no, and Charles doesn’t blame her for it. She doesn’t know him that well, after all, and these are her children they’re talking about. He can only imagine his reaction if someone asked to take David away for the night. But on the other hand, her children are significantly older and more than capable of taking care of themselves, if it comes to that, and this is indeed the conclusion Kat comes to after a few moments. Besides, she decides, it’ll do Alex some good to get away from the whispers that follow him around this town, even if only for a night.

“Sure,” she says, and smiles at him. “That sounds nice. Where will you guys stay?”

“Well, I don’t have definite plans, yet, but I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to lay our heads. A suite at some Hilton, probably – they do seem to have the edge in that market, don’t they?”

“Oh,” Kat says, quite clearly taken aback. _Dear Lord_ , she thinks, _first the crazy tips and now this. How rich is this guy?_

And that’s when Charles realizes that Kat has no idea what a suite at the Hilton costs. Or perhaps it’s he who doesn’t realize how limited most people’s traveling expenses are. Kat is a small business owner, but Charles can see, now that he’s looking for it, that it’s not the profitable venture Charles had previously assumed it must be. The only business owners he’d known in the city were riotously wealthy, but Kat, like most people in this town, is barely making ends meet, and the profits she does turn are split between raising Scott and paying off Alex’s legal fees.

If only there were a way for Charles to help her situation without it being offensive or patronizing. There’s an idea forming in his head, one that may be mutually beneficial to all involved, but it’ll take some finesse. It will step two in Charles’s plan.

They reach her front door and she unlocks it then holds it for him to enter.

"Tea?" she asks, and Charles nods. She directs him to the small kitchen table while she sets down her burdens on the counter and starts to bustle for some mugs.

He soon hears the clatter of feet and feels the rush of low grade annoyance that usually follows Alex about, and then the front door rattles as Alex and Scott come through.

“Hey, guys,” Kat says, and Scott smiles at her. “How was school?”

As Scott start to tell her about his day, Alex turns to Charles and scowls.

“Haven’t learned to cook for yourself yet, huh, Professor?” He’s been calling Charles that for the past two days and Charles can only assume it’s Hank’s influence.

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Charles says and gives him a smile to show he won’t be annoyed so easily as all that. “But actually, I’m here to see you.”

“Me?” Alex asks, and takes a little step back. “What the hell for?”

His mother gives him a look of practiced exasperation at this, one that means _yes I know you’re legally an adult but you’re still living under my roof and your brother is young and impressionable so keep your potty talk to a minimum._

“I need two strapping young lads who wouldn’t mind me occupying their time tonight. And probably most of tomorrow, as well.”

Alex’s jaw drops. He shoots a glance at his mother and brother, still wrapped up in their own conversation, and then thinks, _holy shit, holy shit, I think this guy just propositioned me! He wants a threesome!_

Charles chokes. What? _What?!_ Where on earth would Alex get that idea? He reviews what he’s said, and all right, maybe it wasn’t phrased in the best possible way, but there’s no need to jump to that conclusion. Although…

“I’ve already asked Hank McCoy,” he says, biting down on a wicked grin. “He’s agreed.”

Alex swallows hard and his thoughts immediately go from _shocked-confused-flattered_ to _yes-Hank-want-hot_. Oh. It seems Alex Summers is harboring very explicit thoughts about their dear Mr. McCoy. Alex wants to take Hank to bed. He wants to spread Hank open and lick him from the inside out. He wants Hank up against a shower wall, wet and warm and panting. He wants to fill Hank up, for Hank to fill him up, and he wants to hold him afterward until they both fall asleep.

That last one’s rather sweet. Charles almost hates to break into his thoughts, but he can’t let the poor boy go on thinking he’s being propositioned, either. 

“I’m planning a short trip to Ikea in the city. I’m in need of a new set of furniture, and I need some strong boys to help me with the lifting and things. I thought you and Hank would be a good fit.” In more ways than one, apparently, but that’s neither here nor there. “Scott would be welcome to come along, of course. We could do some sightseeing or something tonight, and then tomorrow we could get the shopping done before we come home. What do you say? Interested?”

If anything were to bring Alex away from his sexual thoughts, it’s involving his brother in the proceedings. He scowls again.

“What’s in it for me?” he asks.

“Alex,” Kat scolds. “Don’t be rude.”

“Dinner, for one,” Charles says easily. He’s not offended. Alex can’t drive him away so easily. Charles has rather a lot of practice with unfriendly men. He married one, after all. “A night in a nice hotel. I’m sure we’ll think of something I can give you in return. Perhaps something will catch your eye while we’re out and about.” Something like Hank McCoy, for instance.

“Fine,” Alex says and tries to pretend he’s not looking forward to spending the night with Hank. “Fine. When do we leave?”

XXXXX

“Wow,” Alex says, looking around the hotel. “This place is swanky like fuck.”

Charles thinks he should probably say something about swearing around the children, but he’s not Alex’s keeper and he thinks expression is an important part of childhood, anyway, even if the polite mothers of Hammer Bay disagree.

“It really is,” Hank says, looking out the window at the view of the city. “Professor, this must have cost a lot of money.”

“Oh don’t worry about that,” Charles says, waving his concern away. “I came into quite a considerable amount of money about six years ago after my mother passed.” Thank God Kurt had gone before her or there might have been a legal battle over the inheritance. Cain, at least, knows better than to challenge Charles in anything that isn’t hand-to-hand combat (and even then, Charles’s abilities give him the edge).

“I’m sorry,” Hank says automatically, and it takes Charles a moment to realize he’s talking about Charles’s mother.

“Don’t be,” he says. “We hadn’t talked in years before that. She wasn’t what you would call mother of the year, I’m afraid.” A part of him still aches for the mother she might have been, if things had been different, if _she_ had been different, but he hardly even knew the woman.

“Anyway,” he says, bringing the conversation back around to the hotel. “This suite has two rooms with two beds each. I don’t especially care how we split it up, but I will be up and down several times in the night to feed the baby, so whoever’s with me had better be a sound sleeper.”

“Scott,” Alex says at once. When Scott looks at him, confused, he adds, “You’re a sound sleeper. You should room with the Prof and the baby.”

He has ulterior motives, of course, but as long as what he says is true, everybody wins.

“I guess,” Scott says.

That seems to settle that. Charles puts the play yard and his overnight bag in one of the rooms, then brings David and the diaper bag back out to the living room for a change and a feeding.

“Oh gross,” Scott says when he comes back from claiming the other bed in their room. “Does he always poop like that? All slimy and stuff?”

“It’s the milk,” Charles explains. “He doesn’t consume any solids, only liquids. Naturally what comes out the other end is going to be a bit liquidy. It would be worse if he drank formula, I’m told.”

He feels Scott think the obvious question, but he doesn’t ask and Charles doesn’t volunteer the information quite yet.

“Oh gross,” Alex says as he comes into the room.

Charles laughs and reaches for a wipe. “Am I to understand the Summers brothers have never changed a diaper?”

“You got that right, man,” Alex says, standing well back.

“It would be worse with formula,” Scott volunteers.

“Oh,” Alex says, and then, “Wait. What? You mean he doesn’t drink formula? Where the fuck do you get the milk, then? I thought babies couldn’t have cow milk.”

“They can’t,” Charles agrees, sliding on the new diaper and fastening it shut. “And he doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t what?” Hank asks as he comes back from the other bedroom.

“The Prof doesn’t feed the baby formula,” Alex explains. “Or cow milk. But what else is there?”

“Oh, I know this one,” Hank says. “Mothers can pump their milk and freeze or refrigerate it so the baby can be fed while they’re away. Whoever has the baby just has to warm the milk up and put it into a bottle.”

“Why do you know that?” Alex asks, giving Hank a sideways glance.

Hank shrugs. “No particular reason,” he says, and his words might be cryptic but his tone is very open. “I was just curious after meeting David. So I read some books.”

“Of course,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “You read some books. That’s Hank McCoy: can’t get a date, but he _read some books_.”

Charles does give Alex a look at that. “That’s quite enough,” he says, and Alex thankfully backs down.

He turns to Hank, who’s gone a splotchy red. Charles offers him a smile, though that’s surely no consolation. 

“You’re quite right, of course, Hank,” he says. “In normal situations, a mother can pump her milk for when the baby can’t be with her. But in this case, that’s actually an unnecessary step. Because you see, _I’m_ David’s mother.”

All three boys stare.

“What?” Alex asks into the shocked silence. “You’re a girl?”

“Well, no,” Charles concedes. “I was being glib. I’m not David’s mother. David has no mother. But I did give birth to him. It’s quite a rare mutation, but I was able to conceive and birth David, and now I’m able to feed him directly from my body, as a baseline human mother might.”

He wants to give them a moment to absorb this information, but David starts to fuss from hunger, so there’s no time for anyone else’s sensitivities.

“Do you mind if I feed him here?” he asks. “If not, I can take him into the bedroom.”

“Here’s fine,” Hank ventures. He takes a seat on the chair opposite, but he doesn’t open his book, simply continues to watch Charles.

“Yeah, whatever,” Alex mutters, and goes to turn on the television and pretend that he isn’t watching, either.

Charles takes off his sweater and undoes the strap on the left side of his undershirt. Then he pulls David close enough to latch and forces himself to feel hungry. One day David is going to learn to shield himself and on that day, Charles is going to cry with relief and then take a goddamn nap. He’s earned it at this point, he thinks.

His nipples are still sore for some reason, but he can feel Scott watching him, so he doesn’t allow his face to falter.

“So, he was inside of you?” Scott asks, crawling up onto the sofa next to Charles and watching with wide interested eyes. 

“Yes, he was,” Charles agrees. He shifts David a bit higher and touches the spot where David had first started growing within him. It’s particularly obvious how bloated he is right now in this position. The drive down with his tight seatbelt hadn’t helped in that matter, and neither had the pizza they’d stopped to eat for dinner. “Right about here.”

Scott gives his stomach a skeptical look. “I’ve seen pregnant ladies,” he says, and puts his arms out in front of him with hands clasped in a Santa Clause pose. “Were you like that?”

“Oh, yes,” Charles assures him. “But babies start very small, just a tiny egg. They take months to grow into babies that are ready to be born.”

“Nine months,” Scott says, and Charles nods, even though it had more been like ten.

Then he says suddenly, “How did he get in there in the first place?” He has a vague idea, Charles can tell, but he doesn’t know the specifics and he’d rather like to.

“Scott!” Alex cuts in suddenly. “Isn’t it your bedtime?”

“It’s only seven!” Scott squawks indignantly. “I’m not a baby, Alex, jeeze!”

“Seven, oh dear,” Charles says. “It really will be _my_ bedtime soon, I’m afraid.” Well, David’s bedtime, anyway, but Charles is exhausted. He’s been ignoring the itching tiredness in his eyes for the past half hour, at least. It’s been a long day, there’s no doubt about that.

Charles half hopes that David will fall asleep while nursing and they can save themselves the hassle of getting him down for the night. He remembers fondly the (very few) weeks when David would just fall asleep on his own in his play yard. They could just set him down and walk away and he’d somehow fall asleep. That had been a good time. David had let Erik hold him so often in those few weeks and Erik had seemed so happy. But then the fussiness had come back and Erik’s patience had broken, and that was the end of it.

David does not, in fact, fall asleep while nursing. Instead he sits on Charles’s lap for another twenty minutes before the eye rubbing starts. Charles takes that as his queue to retreat into the bedroom before any crying can occur. He bids the boys goodnight and makes his retreat.

His timing is good: he’s barely in the bedroom two minutes before David starts to cry. Charles does what he can, cradles him and walks with him, but even with that and the soothing he pushes out, David still screams. Charles’s head aches with the noise and the consequent tightening of his shoulders.

 _Please sleep_ , he thinks desperately. _Please, baby, please._

He could put him to sleep by force. He’s been tempted more than once. Hell, he’s tempted right now. But he won’t. He doesn’t. Erik was right about one thing: if Charles interfered telepathically every time something went wrong with David, David would never learn to handle those things on his own. He has to learn to sleep on his own, even if that means Charles has to suppress a breakdown every time David is too cranky to sleep. And he does have to suppress it, because he won’t be able to shield David if his own emotions are going haywire, and then David would feel it and he’d cry all the more. It’s a vicious cycle, one Charles and Erik both know only too well. But Charles is not Erik, and he will not succumb to his emotions.

At last, David does sleep, and then, so too does Charles.

XXXXX

When Charles wakes for the first time, it’s to a torrent of emotion. It takes him a split second to realize the person having those emotions isn’t David, and then another to throw his shields up around David’s mind, lest he wake to this commotion. Charles’s head is still pounding and he feels muzzy, but he can tell the person in conflict is Alex, and Alex is the only other person awake in the suite.

The emotion is… complicated. In his state of drowsiness, Charles doesn’t have the finesse to sort it all out. But he gets the picture: Alex and his loneliness, and his fear of hurting everyone around him, and his love for Hank. And it is love, Charles can see that now. He’d thought it was only lust before, but now he knows better. Hank had been visiting Alex in juvie, and he’d been the only one to do so, apart from Scott and Kat. Hank’s reasons are his own, but though they’d known each other before he went away, it was only in that time when Alex, so alone otherwise, had realized what Hank meant to him. And now, try as he might, Alex always says the worst thing. He wants Hank to notice him, to pay attention, and it always, always comes out in the worst possible way.

 _You’re alright_ , Charles thinks, but he doesn’t project that. He sends soothing and calm, instead. Alex doesn’t know where they come from, but he wraps himself in them and lets his mind stop turning. He sleeps, at last, and then so does Charles.

The baby will be up in an hour.

XXXXX

“Look, man,” Alex says the next day as they’re examining one of Ikea’s trendy living room displays, “I gotta ask: what’s this whole thing about? What’s all this shit on this list for, anyway?”

“Oh,” Charles says, and it’s true he’s been rather distracted, what with avoiding Erik’s detection and trying to keep the baby happy and introducing the boys to the finer points of city life. He hadn’t realized he’s never explained the whole reason they’re shopping for furniture. “I suppose I haven’t said, have I? We’re starting a youth group.”

“A youth group?” Alex repeats, face twisting up in a scowl as his mind flicks to the only sort of youth group he’s ever heard of: the church sponsored one that meet on Wednesday nights in the Methodist church basement to eat cookies and have bible study.

“Nothing religious,” Charles clarifies. Nothing wrong with religious youth groups, of course, not when they’re done right, but goodness, Charles wouldn’t even know where to start on that front! “No, I was thinking something slightly different than that. This would be a youth group for mutants. Somewhere they could feel safe and included.”

Alex scoffs and his hands ball into fists. “What would you know about not being included, huh? I bet you went your whole damn life before the baby being fucking normal. You might think you get it, but you don’t know what it’s like!”

Charles blinks. He glances at Hank and then at Scott. They’re both looking nervous and embarrassed. “Didn’t either one of you tell him?”

“It wasn’t my place,” Hank says quietly at the same time Scott mutters, “You said it was a secret.”

“Tell me what?” Alex snaps. He hates not knowing things, and he especially hates it when his _younger_ brother and stupid fucking genius Hank McCoy make him feel like an idiot. “What is it?”

 _I do understand_ , Charles tells him. And then he says what he’d told Erik that very first time their minds had touched. _You’re not alone. I understand what it’s like, Alex, I promise you that._

Alex goes red in the face. He thinks about all the terrible things he’s thought in Charles’s presence, and how he’d just assumed - . He feels like an idiot. He feels humiliated.

“Whatever,” he spits, and stomps off toward the kitchens section.

Scott sighs. “He’s been kind of a jerk today,” he says.

He has, Charles agrees, but no doubt he has his reasons after last night. It’s no excuse, though, and Alex definitely needs to pull himself together before he really hurts someone – emotionally, if not physically. 

“We’ll give him some space,” Charles decides. “He’ll come back. In the meantime, will you two help me pick out a few end tables?”

Hank and Scott both give one last sad look in Alex’s direction and then turn away. The three of them work their way through the rest of the living room section. They pick three side tables, a longer slim table for the computers, a sofa, and four chairs. None of them match. The effect is going to be glorious!

Alex does slink back eventually, maybe twenty minutes later, and none of them say anything about his little outburst. Children never want to be reminded of what they’ve done wrong, Charles read that somewhere. Alex is only a handful of years younger than Charles, but those years are crucial, and Alex is still a child in so many of the ways that matter.

By the time they make it through the display area, David is starting to think in hungry yellow, and Charles himself could be persuaded to eat. He doesn’t feel well, the same cramps and congestion as yesterday, but he’s thinking that sometime in the near future his appetite might just consider returning. Might. No guarantees.

“Shall we eat?” he asks. The boys all nod eagerly. Charles laughs. He can’t wait to see them try the Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam.

Their reactions don’t disappoint. Hank, sweet and steady Hank, doesn’t say anything, just tells himself it’s in the interest of scientific discovery and not hurting anyone’s feelings. 

Alex watches him take a bite and swallow before committing to it himself. “What the hell,” he mutters, and brings his fork to his mouth. He obviously doesn’t find the taste unpleasing, because he takes another. He loses the thread for a few moments when Hank gets the sauce smeared on his cheek, but he recovers after Hank blushes and wipes it away with his napkin.

“What is this stuff?” Scott asks, poking at it with his fork.

“It’s meatballs, Scotty,” Alex says, nudging Scott’s side with his elbow. “You like meatballs.”

“Yeah, but with spaghetti sauce. Not this brown stuff. And jelly. Who puts jelly on meatballs?”

“Just try it, you big baby!”

“I’m not a baby,” Scott says under his breath, but he finally cuts a bite of the meatball and puts it in his mouth.

“No, indeed,” Charles tells him, watching as Scott chews, still a little unsure. “If you were a baby you’d be eating a slimy banana right now.”

David is, in fact, eating a slimy banana Charles had dug out of the diaper bag. He seems pleased with it, even if he’s gotten more on his face and hands than in his mouth.

“He’s awful cute,” Scott says around a mouthful of meatball.

“Why thank you, my boy,” Charles says, pleased. He gets it often, of course, but it means more coming from the innocence of childhood, somehow.

“Yeah, Professor,” Alex says, and he grins. “He _is_ awful cute. How’d he ever come out of you?”

“Very amusing,” Charles says, and grins right back. “I can assure you, however, that I was there and he did, in fact, come out of me. It took some doing, too.”

Alex makes a face of dramatic disgust and turns back to his food. 

Hank, on the other hand, looks thoughtful. “Professor,” he says slowly, “How _did_ David come out?”

“Hank!” Alex hisses. “I’m eating.”

“It’s a perfectly natural question,” Hank says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He looks set and determined. “Admit it, you’re curious, too.”

“No way,” Alex says, but he is, a bit. “Besides, maybe it’s personal. Maybe the professor doesn’t want to tell you his freaky pregnancy story.”

It is personal, a bit, but Charles doesn’t mind. He never had much shame, and whatever he may have had before all this was swept away by the cold hard truth of childbirth. The mothers on the parenting blogs all seem to have had a similar experience. Once you’ve gone through that bloody, gory mess, you’re more or less immune to feeling shame for the things your body was made to do.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he wants to talk about it while other people are eating. He does have some common courtesy.

“We can talk about this on the drive home,” he says, and Hank seems content with that answer.

XXXXX

Later, after they’ve gone through the warehouse and Charles has arranged for his purchases to be delivered, they start the long drive home.

“So,” Charles says after they’ve driven twenty miles and Scott has fallen asleep in the back. “You asked about David’s birth.”

Hank blushes a little. “If it’s personal, Professor, you don’t have to tell me. I was just thinking it’s a very reactive mutation. You don’t have much control over it.”

“None at all, in fact,” Charles agrees. “My body’s rather taken this one over on its own. I wasn’t even aware that I had a secondary mutation until I’d been pregnant about twenty weeks and felt him telepathically. But it’s not so very unusual to have a passive mutation. My sister is a shapeshifter, for example, but when she’s in her natural form, her skin is blue. Unless she changes her shape with her primary mutation, the secondary mutation remains beyond her control.”

“Interesting,” Hank says. “I’ve never seen a shapeshifter. What forms can she take?”

“Oh, she’s very powerful,” Charles says proudly. “She can take any human form. If she sees you and likes your form, she can become you for as long as her concentration lasts. But I fear we’re rather getting away from the point at hand.”

“Right,” Hank agrees. “So how was David born, anyway? Was it Cesarean?”

Alex huffs from the backseat, but Charles can feel him listening intently.

“It wasn’t, no. What kind of mutation would that be if medical intervention is required? We’ve evolved these traits to make us stronger, remember, not to put us in danger medically. Essentially my labor carried on very much as a baseline human woman’s might, with one exception. Women, when they begin laboring, go more or less directly into the start of cervical dilation. I have many of the same internal components a woman – a uterus and a cervix – but there was no opening at the end of the birth canal. My first stage of labor, before even the start of cervical dilation, was meant to rectify that. The manner in which it did this was through a controlled tear of the perineum.”

Alex makes a pained noise from the backseat and Charles can hear him shifting around. Even Hank looks rather uncomfortable, but he _had_ asked, after all.

“That… that must have hurt,” Hank says after a moment, and Alex thinks, _yeah, no kidding_.

“It did,” Charles confirms. “It very much did. It was worse than the crowning, I’d say. All told, the additional step added another twelve hours of labor on top of the eighteen for the other stages. And of course, by law you can’t give telepaths narcotics – they tend to project their pain and inebriation onto those around them, and with my range and capabilities that would have been very damaging. But the pain is actually largely irrelevant, because the emotional context of loving David has caused me to slowly and consistently underestimate how much pain was involved in giving him life. By the time he’s old enough for a little baby brother or sister I’ll have forgotten entirely how excruciating the whole process was.”

Hank laughs a little. “So does that mean you’re planning on having another one?”

“Oh dear God, no!” Charles says at once, and Alex and Hank both laugh at that. “I said I would _eventually_ forget how painful it all was, not that I’d forgotten already. No. No more babies for me, thank you very much.”


	11. Erik

Erik drives from New York City to Gary, Indiana. He drives from Gary, Indiana to Laramie, Wyoming. He drives from Laramie, Wyoming to Sacramento, California. He drives two-thousand eight-hundred forty-three miles. He sleeps in one cheap motel room and one truck stop parking lot. He eats at one truck stop restaurant, two gas stations, and three diners, and he stabs zero waitresses with his butter knife, even when they bring him a sandwich with bacon on it and act like he won’t notice.

The lead weight in his stomach is with him through all of it. He mostly ignores it during the day when he’s on the road, but when he lays his head down to sleep at night, the panic he’d felt that first night at the manor always comes back to him. That’s probably what’s causing the nightmares, and those are getting worse by the day.

It makes him… angry. No surprise there. Everything makes him angry, and he is so very weary of thinking about it. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the hot helpless rage that starts in his stomach and spreads out through his body until his teeth are clenched and his hands are shaking with it. He tries to push it back down when that happens, ignore it until it goes away. If he concentrates on something else, the rage always goes away eventually. Sometimes it’s gone for minutes, sometimes for hours. He went whole months at a time without feeling this way before the baby was born. But it always comes back in the end. He imagines the rage inside of him as being held back by a dam – steel, not concrete – and people on the bank fire on it. Sometimes they get lucky and the dam cracks. He always fixes the dam again as quickly as he can, but it’s never quick enough to stop some rage from spilling out onto the causeway. And the damage the flood does is beyond his control. Some days, it feels like _everything_ is beyond his control.

Erik does some soul searching in western Utah. He certainly doesn’t intend for that to happen, but as he drives along the very straightest of highways with only vast nothingness to look at, he can feel himself losing concentration on the road. It’s so quiet, too. It’s always so quiet when Charles and the baby aren’t around. Erik misses their noise. He misses _them_. He aches for the feel of Charles’s wedding ring against his skin.

He knows why they left. Erik is broken in a way that can’t be denied. He knows the cause, of course; what happened to him with Sebastian Shaw has left Erik damaged inside. He just doesn’t particularly know what to do about it. He’d thought for so long that finding and killing Shaw would fix everything, but Shaw’s been dead seven years now and all that rage Erik had pinned on him remains exactly where it was – but this time without an anchor or any (however feeble) hope of finding peace at the end of. 

He’s heard people say that forgiveness is the only solution for hate, but Erik knows that’s bullshit. It might help, he can admit that, but no one ever really forgives the people who wrong them, not if that wrong is great enough. Erik knows he will never forgive Shaw for any of it, not for seducing Erik’s mother and not for killing her, and especially not for the year of torture and abuse that came in between. He can’t forgive Shaw for any of that, and he can’t forgive himself for living through it when his mother did not.

And that’s… really messed up, Erik guesses. But what is he supposed to do? It’s the question of the hour. But he has no answers. And anyway, it’s not his top priority. He’s going to find Charles and David first, and then he’ll deal with whatever’s wrong with him. One thing at a time, that’s all, even if that means he has to conduct his search with the weight of aloneness and rage pressing him down.

XXXXX

The silence starts to get to Erik in Nevada. He tries to find something decent on the radio, but even with his power enhancing the range, he feels dissatisfied with every station. He should have brought along an audiobook as a distraction, and that might have helped, but it hadn’t crossed his mind before. He doesn’t usually put up with distractions, especially not when he’s on the hunt. But he’s starting to think taking his mind off the situation at hand might do him some good.

In Sacramento, Erik can’t take it anymore, either the weight of dread in his stomach or the itching silence. He knows he needs _something_. A beer, maybe, or conversation. Or both. 

Azazel answer his phone with a cheery, “You have break down, friend?”

“Cars do not break down while I’m driving them,” Erik says, feeling offended. He has to remind himself that this is his only friend and that he genuinely does like Azazel. “No. Do you want to have drinks?”

“Yes,” Azazel says, not even stopping to think about it. “Where?”

Erik checks the street signs. “Arden Way and Eastern Avenue. In Sacramento.”

“Let me dress,” Azazel says, and rings off.

Azazel, of course, is a snappy dresser, and Erik means that in both senses. He appears on the sidewalk next to Erik within three minutes looking neat and pressed and ready for a night out. Erik himself is car-wrinkled and sweaty. Apparently mid-September in California does not mean the same thing it means in New York.

“How was the drive?” Azazel asks, giving Erik a once-over.

“I haven’t found him yet,” Erik says, which is the only answer that matters.

“Not what I asked,” Azazel says easily. “But okay. Come. Let us have drinks.”

They do have drinks, several each, and by his third, Erik can feel himself getting maudlin. This is why he doesn’t really drink, as a habit. He doesn’t _not_ drink, but he likes to be in control of himself – as much as he can be, anyway.

“How’s Emma?” Erik remembers to ask eventually after they’ve been drinking in silence for a while.

“Tolerable,” Azazel says. “Or I am tolerable to her. I am never sure.”

“Telepaths,” Erik says darkly and swallows another mouthful of beer.

“You will find yours,” Azazel says. His pointy tail comes up to pat Erik on the shoulder. Erik knows how sharp that point is from experience and doesn’t make any sudden movements.

“Yeah,” Erik says, and the word hangs sort of awkwardly in the air around them. He doesn’t know where his eloquence has gone. Probably Charles took that with him when he left, too.

“Do you want to talk about feelings?” Azazel offers.

“No,” Erik says. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you want another drink?”

Erik likes that idea. And it’s his turn to buy.

The human bartender has been glaring at them since they came in, but he still takes Erik’s money in exchange for service. If Erik were feeling a little less lost, he would have walked out already. It’s not as bad as it could be, he knows that, but discrimination is not a contest, and just because it’s not physical or loud doesn’t mean it’s not important.

“These humans,” Erik says when he comes back with two of what’s on tap.

Azazel nods, and of course he gets it. He’s straight and his parents were Christians, which is two less things than Erik has going against him, but Erik is also not red or in possession of a tail, so he figures things probably balance in his favor anyway.

“They think they’re better than us,” Erik tells him. “They think they can treat us however they want and get away with it. They think they can control us.”

“Yes,” Azazel says. “They fear us. Let them be afraid.”

“We could destroy them,” Erik says, and it’s the beer talking, he’s sure of it. If Charles were here, he’d put a stop to this sort of conversation. But he isn’t here. “They shoot us down in the streets, they lock us up in their prisons, and we’re just expected to take it.” 

“We will not take it,” Azazel says. “We will… we will drink more.”

“Yes,” Erik says. “To the revolution,” he offers, and they clink glasses.

After the next round, and Erik’s lost count by this point, Azazel snuffles and then tells him, “They drive me away from home, the humans.” He sounds… choked up. They’ve never been this drunk together before. This is all new for Erik. “They think I am a devil. They tell me I cannot stay. So I go, but I was only a boy.”

Erik growls in anger. He knows what that’s like, in a way. “When we remake the world, they’ll pay,” he promises. “They’ll pay in blood.”

“Good,” Azazel says. He’s listing slowly forward, and soon his nose will touch the bar.

“Can you drink and teleport?” Erik wonders suddenly.

Azazel shrugs one shoulder and that does nothing to answer Erik’s question. Erik blinks and it takes more concentration than he’d like to pry his eyes back open.

“Do you love her?” he asks. When Azazel just looks at him blankly, Erik adds, “Emma. I always thought you loved her.”

“She stays,” Azazel says. “And no one else does. Is that love?”

“I used to know what love is,” Erik thinks or maybe says. “At least she stays.”

“She stays, I stay,” Azazel agrees. “But she meets other man, she will leave. Come back after, maybe, but that is not what I want.”

“What do you want?”

Azazel sighs. “I wish I knew. You, at least, know what you want.”

“Charles,” Erik says. “And the baby. My Mäuschen. Only them.”

They finish that round in silence, then Azazel makes a trip to the bathroom. As he’s coming back on unsteady legs, a human man – little more than a child – bumps into him.

Erik can see it from across the bar as Azazel turns his head slowly to look at the boy. The boy scowls in fear and anger, and says, “Watch where you’re going, freak!”

After that, all bets are off.

XXXXX

Erik wakes up spooned against someone, and when he blinks open his heavy eyes, he realizes that that someone’s _red pointy tail_ is curled tightly around his wrist.

“Was zur Hölle…” His throat aches and the words come out hoarse.

He tries to sit up, but of course he’s tied down, and anyway, the room is spinning.

“What did we _do_ last night?” Erik asks Azazel’s bare red shoulder. It’s a very nice shoulder, Erik’s always thought so. Or he would have, if he’d ever given thought to Azazel’s fucking shoulder before.

Azazel groans and buries his face in the pillow.

“You’re a shitty Russian,” Erik says, poking Azazel in the ribs with his free hand. His head may be pounding and the room may be spinning, but at least he’s regained the power of speech. “I thought you guys knew how to drink.”

Azazel lifts his head up long enough to glare at Erik and says, “Vodka. Not beer. That is your nature, not mine.” Then he says something in Russian that Erik assumes is an insult and lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

“At least remove your tail from my person,” Erik says, pulling a little with that wrist. Azazel obliges him and the tail loosens enough for Erik to take his hand back.

Erik leans back on his own pillow and clenches his hand against the pins and needles. A hazy memory comes to him. “Did we try to recruit people into the Brotherhood of Mutants? I seem to recall trying to do that.”

“Da,” Azazel says, muffled.

“Gott,” Erik says, and rolls onto his back. “We’re not even _members_ of the Brotherhood.”

He wants to laugh, but also he wants to cry. He might vomit. He hasn’t been that drunk in… God, years. Not since college, and even then he’d always had Charles to watch over him, make sure he got plenty of water and didn’t make too much of a fool out of himself. Charles was always such a good babysitter, not least because he’d gotten his own years of drunken foolishness out of the way years earlier when he himself had been an undergrad. And he’d understood, in a way maybe no one else would have, that Erik needed the chance to let loose. Erik had been taking care of himself for years before that, in foster homes and on the streets. It had been nice to have someone else take care of him for once. And it had been even nicer to know that Charles needed Erik’s care just as much.

“I’ve failed in my duties as a husband,” he says to the ceiling. “And as a father. I should have taken care of them.”

“Not too late,” Azazel mutters.

“Isn’t it?” Erik asks. His stomach clenches and he’s not sure if it’s the hangover or dread for the future. “What if it is? My son hates me. My husband has left me. He probably hates me, too. I wouldn’t blame him for that. Maybe I really should just give it up.”

Azazel snorts but it turns into a groan of pain. “And do what?” he manages. “Where do you go then?”

“Back to the Brotherhood, maybe.” It’s a thought, anyway. He hasn’t been a member of the Brotherhood for years, not since before he met Charles, and even then he’d been more of a hanger-on than a true member. He’d been fresh from juvenile detention then and even fresher from the group home, and both had been run by humans who regarded Erik at best as a freak and at worst as a genuine threat to their safety. He’d mostly joined the Brotherhood hoping for clues to find Shaw, but the people there – the _mutants_ there – had been the first in all the years since his mother had been killed to accept him as he was.

Of course, then he’d met Charles and realized that he could have more than acceptance: he could have love. Charles saw into Erik’s soul, knew everything he was and is, and he loved him anyway. He still does, Erik knows that. He _has_ to. Erik has to believe it.

“No,” he says, and he’s glad his voice comes out firm. “No. I will not give up so easily. I will find him.”

And if he has to change something in himself to make Charles take him back, then so be it. It’s high time Erik stops messing about and gets down to business. No more excuses, no more delays. He’s going to figure out whatever it is that’s broken in himself and fix it.

Right after he stops being hung over, that is.

Azazel’s tail is creeping back over again to slither up under Erik’s shirt. Erik watches in bemusement as it slowly curl around his waist. 

“Your tail has designs on my virtue,” Erik tells Azazel.

Azazel snores into his pillow.

“Keep your point to yourself,” Erik tells the tail. “And no below the belt action.”

The tail makes no answer. Because it’s a tail. Erik is still drunk, definitely.

“What the hell,” he says. “What the serious hell.”

He rolls himself over and pushes his face into the pillow. He’s going to sleep this off. But then he’s got a mission to complete.


	12. Erik

Erik’s journey back east takes nearly twice as long as the trip in the opposite direction, and the only way he can explain it is that he’s now searching for himself as well as searching for Charles. He visits a chain book shop in Sacramento and buy an audiobook called _Anger: Handling a Powerful Emotion in a Healthy Way_ which he figures is pretty to the point. Unfortunately, the point that it’s making is that Erik should probably be a Protestant. He doesn’t make it thirty minutes into listening before he gives it up as a bad job and turns on the radio instead. In Barstow he buys a collection of Schubert and the overall effect is much more helpful.

It’s a good thing he does, too, because with the waning of his hangover comes the reemergence of his dread and despair. He spends his thinking moments alternating between complete confidence that Charles will take him back and anger with himself over having caused this whole damn mess. He also finds time to be angry with that bastard Sebastian Shaw for fucking him up emotionally like this, and too with Charles for leaving in the first place. He tries to foster the former and squash the latter; it’s perfectly okay to hate Shaw, but even in his darkest moments Erik knows he could never hate Charles.

He ends up making quite a few stops along the way. There’s only so long a person can be angry while driving before he has to get out and stretch his legs and punch a few walls. He stops at a rest area just inside the Arizona state line to pace furiously in the grass. People are staring at him again and this time he doesn’t give a damn. The anger sits hot and tight in his stomach and if he lets it, it claws its way through his chest and up into his throat. It’ll choke him if it he allows it, and it’ll smile while it smothers him.

The pacing doesn’t help. It never does. The punching walls doesn’t help, either, but maybe he isn’t trying hard enough. He only has one good arm left these days, after all, and if he injures that, too, how will he drive? He does a few laps of the building with the bathrooms and snack machines, hoping to burn off some of the feeling, and then he does a few more when it’s not as effective as he wants it to be. 

He’s panting and sweaty by the time he crawls back into the driver’s seat of his car, and he still feels pissed off, but at least he can breathe again. His hands have stopped clenching into fists on their own, and thank God for that, because the left one is starting to ache from the motion - he’ll be damned glad when this stupid arm has healed, and not just because his coordination is so very limited with his right hand.

He still feels angry. He still feels helpless. But he’s no longer in danger of exploding, either, and that has to be good enough for now.

XXXXX

Twenty minutes past Flagstaff, Erik starts to feel tingly. The very first thing he has to rule out is that his brain has stopped getting enough oxygen, but no, that’s stupid. Just because he feels like his breath chokes off inside of him every time he thinks about the situation at hand doesn’t mean that’s actually what’s happening. And anyway, he knows this tingle. Sort of.

It’s not Charles’s wedding ring, that’s for sure. Erik’s been on high alert for the feeling of that metal in his mind. He would recognize it instantly. But more than that, this tingling doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not like any metal Erik’s ever felt before, and he muses on the problem idly, glad for the distraction.

Then he sees the sign for something called Meteor Crater, and all bets are off.

Space metal. Space. Metal. Meteors are space metal! There’s no way Erik can’t stop now.

The tingling feeling increases the closer Erik gets closer to the attraction. He hesitates about paying the admission fee, especially when he doesn’t care about the sights but really just wants to close his eyes and _feel_ the metal, but the desire to get as close as possible to the impact site gets the better of him and he ends up forking over the twenty dollars.

The crater is… impressive, Erik will give it that. He doesn’t opt for the guided tour but instead stands at an observation area and just takes it all in. The longer he soaks in the energy of the place, the more he can feel himself relaxing. His head feels clear in a way it hasn’t in over a week, and he knows that’s just the extreme concentration of space metal getting him high, but it still feels nice. It feels a little bit like being surrounded, like having Charles and David curled up with him on their bed at home and David isn’t crying for once and his little mind brushes clumsily against Erik’s and Charles’s warm body is pressed up against Erik’s and there’s nothing wrong in the world, nothing at all.

“Hey, buddy, are you okay?”

Erik jerks around and blinks the man into focus. He has to blink, he realizes, because his eyes are suspiciously wet. He hasn’t quite been crying, but he hasn’t _not_ been crying, either. Misting, maybe is the right word. He’s misting up. Like a damn house plant.

“Buddy?” the man says again.

Erik just stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say to this man – this human man. He doesn’t have the words to describe what he’s feeling, and he wouldn’t bare his soul to a stranger, anyway, even if he could articulate it.

“Oh, leave him alone, babe,” a woman says from the man’s other side. “It’s just pretty, that’s all.”

The man looks at her then back at Erik uncertainly.

Somehow Erik manages to find his voice. “I’m quite fine.”

He’s _not_ , but he does feel better, somehow: less on edge. He spends a while more soaking in the crater and then makes his retreat. His stomach has unclenched enough for him to realize he’s hungry, so he grabs a sandwich in the visitor’s center and then wanders about the gift shop. It’s largely filled with knickknacks and stuffed animals and clothing. Some of the clothing is in fact _on_ the stuffed animals. He picks up a small yellow bear in a Meteor Crater shirt on a whim and studies it. 

Erik remembers having a stuffed bear as a child. A comfort object, he thinks, and it makes him feel a bit like the Receiver of Memory (although truth be told, that should probably be Charles’s title). Children in the _Giver_ had their comfort objects taken away when they were Eights. Erik must have had his longer than that, at least, because he’d had it when they moved from Munich to Strasbourg and he’d still had it two years later when they’d come to New York, even though he must have been just older than eight then. He’d been very invested in that stuffed bear, he recalls, and he’d kept it hidden in his room long after he’d passed the acceptable age for such comforts. He’d still had it in middle school, and if he’d had any friends there he’s sure they would have laughed at him.

The bear disappeared about the time that Sebastian Shaw appeared on the scene, and Erik doesn’t know if that’s coincidence or not. He knows he definitely didn’t take the bear with him when they moved in with Shaw. Erik was on his own from then on. He hadn’t been prepared, not all. His parents had coddled him, treated him as a child and he had been blindsided by the adult situations he’d found himself in. Sitting in his plastic prison in the juvenile detention center less than two years later, he’d reflected that it would have been easier all around if his parents had been less loving. Maybe if they hadn’t cared so much about him, hadn’t coddled him so much, he would have been ready for Shaw. Maybe if Erik had been stronger, his mother never would have been killed.

Erik realizes abruptly that he’s clutching the stuffed bear rather tightly in the crook of his uninjured arm. Slowly, painfully, he makes his grip relax. He doesn’t feel angry, for once, just sad and tired. He’s so fucking tired. He needs a nap. Well, he needs his family, but a nap will have to do.

He puts the bear back down and turns to leave. But that’s when he sees it. Sitting next to the pile of stuffed bears is a single plush Meteor Crater mouse. A little mouse. Not _Erik’s_ little mouse, but it could be. He itches to pick it up. David is just at the age where he’s starting to notice toys around him. He has books and rattles and blocks, but he has no stuffed animals, and Erik knows that’s his fault. He wants David to be strong. He never wants David to feel lost and alone and like the world is completely out of his control, and so he _must_ be strong.

But David gets scared now, Erik knows it. He'll, Erik's caused it. And maybe David even gets lonely. David is Erik’s own little mouse. This might be a sign.

Erik feels like he’s at a crossroads. This whole trip is one intersection after another, and with every decision he’s drifting farther and farther away from his original route. Soon he’ll be helplessly lost, never to find his way back.

He buys the mouse.


	13. Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: Thank you guys so much for all your support on this! You have no idea how many times I re-read your comments while I'm writing each chapter.
> 
> A/N 2: Someday Erik will have long chapters, too. I swear it!
> 
> A/N 3: I was reading back through the first few chapters for continuity and realized I'd referenced [Die Sendung mit der Maus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoN35YWr6W8&index=5&list=PL1uRMCVt1hBHPMVtgIPQVisf5WZjOGJly). Now, it's blatantly obvious to me that Charles is the mouse from the mouse-spots, which must make David the elephant. But then who is the duck? (teaser: actually, I've got an answer for that but the character hasn't been introduced yet, so...).
> 
> I don't know, what do you guys think?

Charles spends the rest of September and the beginning of October shopping. He’ll admit it’s a cathartic experience. Every click of “add to shopping cart” feels a bit like the tension is draining away from him. The fact that David is finally out of his week of terror doesn’t hurt, either. And, on top of all that, Charles starts to feel well enough again to feel hunger.

“You look good,” Kat tells him one Friday morning when Charles wanders in for eggs and bacon. And oh, bacon – there’s one definite benefit to living on his own again (and don’t think the pit doesn’t drop out of his stomach when he first has that thought). He’s been craving meat for the past week, at least, and it doesn’t make the taste of metal in his mouth any easier to bear, but Charles has mostly gotten used to that by now.

“Why thank you, my dear,” Charles says. He _feels_ good, or at least better, and that almost makes up for the weight he’s definitely started putting back on. Almost.

“How have you been, then?” he asks as he and David slide into a seat at their favorite table.

Kat smiles and rolls her eyes. “I haven’t seen my living room floor in two weeks,” she confides. “Scott’s taking this open house project really seriously.”

“Yes, I’ve heard a bit about that,” Charles agrees. Scott’s been tagging along on the little shopping expeditions Charles has been making with Alex and Hank, and he’s been giving his input about the types of books Charles should order online. He’d also teamed up with Hank to bully Charles into buying the cheaper laptop options available locally rather than ordering from Erik’s company; Charles had protested that he didn’t know what made them think this was a democratic process, but he’d given in at the end anyway. 

But all through all of that, Scott hadn’t stopped fretting about his project.

“Oh, I can imagine,” Kat says dryly. “And I mean, I love him for doing his best, you know, but who would have known a diorama on Ancient Egypt could make such a mess?”

Charles chuckles. “The sand, huh?”

Kat nods. “Oh yeah. And the clay. And the cotton balls. I’m just glad he decided to skip the glitter this time around. Last year they did self-portraits and apparently when Scott looks at himself, he sees a lot of glitter.”

Charles winces. Oh yes. He knows all about glitter. He’s thankfully chosen to teach children of an age where glitter is used primarily for non-educational purposes, but it wasn’t so long ago that he was a student himself, and even more recently than that, he and Erik had, until David’s presence made itself known, gone out now and again to the kind of raving club that specializes in the stuff. More than once has Charles woken up with glitter in places unmentionable.

Thinking of Erik makes Charles sigh tiredly and wonder if the ache of missing him will ever truly go away. It’s not like he thinks that the few weeks he’s been here are enough to erase the eight years he and Erik had together, but he’s so very weary of feeling like this.

Kat sense Charles’s shift in mood and reaches for her notebook. “What can I get you today, hon?”

“Meat,” Charles tells her decidedly, and Alex snorts a laugh from where he’s been loitering a few tables away wiping down salt shakers.

“Problem?” Charles asks him playfully.

“Nothing at all,” Alex says, not even looking up, but he’s thinking, _You’re such a homo, Professor._

 _As a matter of fact, I am_ , Charles shoots back. _But may I point out that it takes one to know one, dear boy?_

Alex smirks, and Charles decides that’s quite enough of that.

“Do you think I could borrow Alex again for a bit after this?” he asks Kat. “I’m trying to get everything all set up for the youth group now that most of it’s come in. I’d be happy to compensate you for his time, of course.”

They both ignore Alex’s grumbled, “I’m not an indentured servant, geeze. You can’t just loan me out.”

“No, of course that’s fine,” Kat says. “Don’t worry about the time. It’s pretty slow today, anyway.”

“If you’re sure,” Charles says. He’ll have to make up the difference through tips, then. It won’t be the first time, either. He’s really going to put action item two into play if he keeps dragging Alex away from the diner like this.

“Totally sure,” Kat says. “You guys just do what you’ve got to do. I guess that means you got in touch with the MacTaggerts?”

“I arranged a meeting with Moira,” Charles confirms. “Lovely young woman. Very intelligent, I must say. She was very agreeable to leasing me the property once I’d explained it was for community purposes.” 

Not _her_ community, of course, but a community, true enough. He hadn’t gone in to the meeting intending to tell her the entire truth, but Moira had been unexpectedly perceptive to the needs of mutant children. Of course she must know a few in her classes, but not many mutants are out in high school if they can help it - not unless something drastic has changed in the decade since Charles has been out of school. But Charles had gotten the impression from her thoughts that she knows a mutant quite well, perhaps even intimately. He’d resisted the urge to peek further into her mind, figuring it would be better to not know these things about a person who is essentially his landlord. 

“Awesome,” Kat says. “I can’t wait to see what you do with the place.”

“Of course you’re welcome any time,” Charles tells her. “And I hope Scott and Alex will both be in and out. Bringing the, ah, cool factor, if you will.”

Kat snorts. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it,” she says.

“Quit talking about me like I’m not here,” Alex snaps.

“I’m sure Alex would love to come around,” Kat says, giving Charles a conspiratorial wink.

“I’m warning you guys,” Alex says, putting his rag down. “Say one more thing and that’s it.”

“Well, I suppose we hadn’t better risk it,” Charles says with a grin.

“I suppose not,” Kat says, and lifts her pen again. “Now, what do you want with your meat?”

XXXXX

Charles stops back to the apartment after breakfast, Alex trudging along behind him.

“Oh do cheer up,” Charles tells him. “You didn’t really want to spend your day wiping down tables, anyway.”

Alex makes a noncommittal noise, but Charles is mind reader and he knows he’s right about this.

They pop into the hardware store to see if anymore packages have come in the mail – they have, as a matter of fact, but Logan has done them the extreme favor (and he is particularly emphatic that this favor _is_ extreme in his eyes) of putting the boxes on Charles’s stairs out back.

“Brilliant!” Charles says, and he and Alex go around back to fetch them.

Alex groans when he sees how many packages Charles has piled up by his front door in the apartment. “Oh come on!” he gripes. “This is gonna take forever to lug over there.”

“Don’t whine, glasses,” Charles tells him. “We’ll take the car. We’ve just got to get them down the stairs and into the back.”

“Yeah, and then back out of the car once we get there,” Alex points out, and all right, that’s reasonable, but there are no other options. “Wiping tables is starting to look awful good, Professor.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Charles promises. 

Alex looks at him, sizes him up. “I don’t know,” he says, and his thoughts are playful, even if his mouth is scowling. “You good for it?”

Charles brings a hand to his chest. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” he says, affecting his very poshest voice. “Am I good for it? My dear boy, I give you my word as a gentlemen: I will make this worth your while.”

“Yeah, alright,” Alex says. “Keep your wig on, your majesty. Let’s just do this stupid thing, alright?”

“Well, only if you’re sure,” Charles says, and goes to get David’s carseat.

XXXXX

With teamwork, determination, and a thorough re-reading of instructions, Charles and Alex manage to get the bookshelves and three of the chairs put together by the time school lets out.

“I dunno, Professor,” Alex says, surveying their work. “This seems like it might be a two-day project, you know?”

“So I’m beginning to see,” Charles agrees. Putting these together is more complicated than he’d thought. Erik had always done this sort of construction work at home because he has a knack for it and can cheat with the tools. “And I suppose you wouldn’t be willing to come back and help me finish this all another time?”

The thing is, Alex has been enjoying himself. He’s not much of a scholar, this one, but he likes puzzles and putting things together. More than that, he likes to be useful. He’s spent so long thinking of himself as a bad kid, poor lamb, and he relishes any opportunity to prove he can be of use to someone.

But of course, none of that means he doesn’t already have other plans.

“Yeah, okay,” Alex says, and Charles rewards him with a smile.

“Excellent,” he says. “I know you’ve got to pick up Scott now, and then of course there’s the open house tonight – I assume you’re going to that?”

“Might as well,” Alex says, and looks at his shoes. He never liked school and school had liked him even less. The teachers and the administration all agree he’s no good, and Alex hates to step foot in that building any time he doesn’t have to. But he won’t let Scotty down, either. “And I gotta be at the diner tomorrow and Sunday, so next time I can help is Monday morning. That work for you?”

“That’s perfect,” Charles assures him. He looks at the clock on the wall. “You’d best get going, if you’re going to collect Scott from school. I know you two usually walk home together.” Another way Alex can prove himself useful, though truth be told, Scott is far past the age of needing walked home and only puts up with it for the brother bonding time.

“Yeah,” Alex says. He grabs his coat and makes to move for the door, but then hesitates and looks back at Charles. “Uh, Professor,” he says slowly, uncomfortably. “Are you going to the thing tonight?”

“I had considered it,” Charles says.

“It’s just, uh…” Alex won’t meet his eyes. Charles wants to peek, but forces himself to be patient instead. Finally, Alex manages, “Hank’s parents aren’t going. They both work evenings. But he works really hard in school, you know? Someone should be there to brag about him to his teachers.”

And oh, that’s unbearably sweet, isn’t it? Alex Summers, juvenile delinquent with his heart in the exact right place. It hurts how much he reminds Charles of Erik.

“I think that can be arranged,” Charles says. “If you see Hank at the school, ask him to stop by the apartment this evening. We can walk over to the school together.”

Alex lets out a breath of relief. “Cool,” he says, and flashes Charles a grin. “Thanks, Prof. I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” Charles agrees, but the door’s already slamming shut.

XXXXX

Hank does stop over later in the evening, and he looks a little shy about the whole thing. Charles, who’s got the baby on the tit, waves him in and gives him a task to take his mind off his embarrassment.

“Come in, come in,” he says. “Can you get David a clean outfit from his room? He’s already spit up all over this one.”

“Sure,” Hank says, and his pleasant agreeableness is a shock after Alex’s surly attitude this afternoon. “Which one?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Anything that looks vaguely like it matches. I was never much good with clothes. If you see anything particularly fashionable in there, my sister probably bought it.”

“Your sister the shapeshifter?” Hank asks, eyes gleaming with interest.

“One and the same.”

“Fascinating,” Hank says. “I suppose she must put a lot of stock in appearances, since her power is primarily concerned with them.”

“I suppose she must,” Charles says, taken slightly aback. He’s never considered it in that way before, but the idea has its merits.

Hank goes to rattle around in Charles’s bedroom for a moment and comes back with a blue and orange bodysuit and a pair of grey pants. Hank, it turns out, it not much for fashion, either. Well, David won’t notice.

“Thank you, my boy,” Charles says. “Just let me burp him and then we can get ready. And tell me, which teachers should we be meeting with?”

Hank talks about his teachers and which classes he’s particularly enjoying and which he would rather skip out on. Charles gets David burped and changed, then they head down onto the street just in time to run into the Summers family, who are, of course, headed in the same direction. Charles falls into step beside Kat while Hank gravitates over to walk side by side with Alex.

 _They are rather sweet_ , Charles thinks.

When they get to the school, they part ways: the Summers clan to the elementary wing to see Scott’s teachers, and Charles and Hank to the high school wing. Charles had been rather shocked when he’d first come into town at how small the school is – elementary and high school both together in one building and less than four hundred children, all told. It’s to be expected in a town of this size, he supposes, and the student-teacher ratio is very impressive, but Charles himself has attended private schools larger than this one. 

“Now, then, which class should we visit first? I don’t suppose you have any dioramas you’d like to show me?”

Hank laughs a little. “Sorry, Professor, we’re fresh out of dioramas. Scott’s got the edge there anyway. But I have started work on my senior project, if you want to see that.”

“Certainly,” Charles says. “Lead the way.” He sketches out a little half bow while keeping David supported with one hand.

Hank takes him down the corridor to a room at the very end. They pass families as they go, and Charles keeps one eye open for anyone with a mutation. No dice yet, but he’s sure at least some of the mutant children will show up to this event. If not, Charles may have to stake out a basketball game and see if that crowd is more to the mutant preference in this town.

The room at the end of the hall turns out to be a wood shop, and Charles is confused at first before he sees that the small adjoining room at the back that’s apparently been given over to an electronics engineering shop. There are computers along one wall and a few projects are on display here and there on the work benches. There are handy little tags under each project that tells the student’s name and what each creation will eventually turn out to be. One, Charles notes with interest, will be a portable lie detector machine. Another, which looks rather like a roast pan, is apparently in the process of becoming an LED planetarium machine. Fascinating.

“Well, this is it,” Hank says, indicating the dominating feature of the room. He rubs the back of his neck as Charles examines it.

It’s certainly… large. It’s obviously a computer of some kind, but the design is so complex that Charles really has no frame of reference for what he’s looking at. The name tag is unclear on that point – it just says Hank’s name and a string of numbers that must mean something to Hank but certainly do not to Charles.

“It looks quite complex,” Charles says at last, because Hank is positively _aching_ for praise. “What’s the functionality?”

“It’s meant to boost brain waves,” Hank says. He takes a step closer so he’s standing next to Charles and points out how each piece corresponds the next and what the overall effect will be. Charles is suitably impressed, and he tells Hank so.

“This is brilliant, you know,” he says, and Hank blushes.

“It’s nothing special,” he says, looking away shyly, but they both know it _is_ something special.

“And brainwaves, yes? Do you suppose there might be a telepathic application?”

Hank looks back at Charles and smiles. His embarrassment is forgotten in his excitement. “Yes, of course! It wasn’t designed for that, but I really think the effect could be noteworthy. I’ve hypothesized that once it’s working properly, it could expand a telepath’s range by maybe up to sixty percent!”

 _Four hundred miles_ , Charles thinks, and probably even without the headaches that stretching to 250 gives him now.

“This is damned impressive, Hank. I mean it,” he adds when Hank looks bashful again. “You’re going to wonders, I can tell. Whichever college you decide upon is going to be falling all over itself to get you on board. And probably several you don’t decide upon, also.” 

Charles has some experience with that, though of course his decisions hadn’t been made solely for academic reasons. He’d wanted to get as far away as possible for undergrad and had had good memories of England from being taken there as a child, so of course it had been Oxford. And his graduate experience had been largely decided by finding the best school that would suit both Charles’s graduate ambitions and Erik’s undergraduate needs. He doesn’t regret either of those experiences, but a part of him does always wonder how different his life might be if he’d chosen the other schools that had been courting him.

“Yeah,” Hank says, but far from looking pleased, he seems a bit gloomy. “I guess.”

That’s… odd. Hank ordinarily becomes very excited at the prospect of talking about his education.

“Have you applied anywhere?” Charles asks tentatively.

Hank looks down and shrugs. “I’ve got some applications, but… I was thinking I might just go to Penn State after all.”

“Penn State?” Charles repeats blankly. “That’s… a good school, I suppose. But surely there are schools with better marks for your field. What about John Hopkins? Or MIT? Have you considered those?”

Hank looks pained as he shrugs. “I can’t really afford those,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

And Charles can see that’s true, but that’s not the reason Hank is so hesitant. He lightly brushes against Hank’s mind and then, oh yes, that would do it…

“Is this about Alex?” Charles asks gently.

Hank takes a deep shuddery breath. “It’s stupid, I know. He doesn’t even want me. But I don’t want to leave him here alone.” He finally looks back at Charles and his eyes are glassy. “They’re awful to him here. Everyone knows what he is and they’re so _mean_.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and Charles goes to him, pulls him into a hug. The height difference puts him at an awkward angle and of course he has to be careful not to press too closely with David strapped to his chest, but the way Hank clings makes Charles sure it’s the right move.

“It’s not stupid at all,” he murmurs. “But I think you ought to consider another possibility: Alex might not want to stay here, either. As you say, some of the townsfolk are rather unkind to him. If you asked, are you sure he wouldn’t want to come away with you? I think you ought to talk to him about it.”

“He doesn’t want me,” Hank whispers, and he sniffles.

 _I don’t know about that_ , Charles thinks. But it’s not his place to say so. Instead he says, “Talk to him, Hank. Even if he only ever wants to be friends, he still may want to leave with you. And you don’t know that he doesn’t want to be with you as more than friends. I think you need to have this conversation with him.”

“Yeah,” Hank says slowly. “Yeah, okay. I will.”

They stay close for another minute or two, Charles sending all his comfort to Hank and letting David feel it, as well, so he doesn’t start to fuss. The moment is broken only when the door opens and another family comes in.

“Oh, hey Hank!” the ginger teenager among them says. “What’s up?”

He notices how close Charles and Hank are standing. “Is that your dad?” he asks, looking between them.

Charles snorts out a laugh. Just how old does this child think he is?

“Hardly,” he says. “Though I see your confusion. Hank and I do look very much alike.”

Hank laughs, too, and surreptitiously wipes his eyes.

“Hey, Sean,” he says. “What are you guys doing in here? You’re not taking this class.”

The teenager - and now that Charles is paying attention he can see the boy is a mutant - laughs easily and says, “Nah, I just wanted to get out of the crowd for a minute. So many people, man.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Charles says, and offers his hand. “It’s good to meet one of Hank’s friends, Sean. I’m Charles Xavier.”

“He’s a professor of genetics,” Hank adds helpfully.

“Oh that’s cool,” Sean says. He slaps his hand into Charles’s open palm and shakes carelessly. “Nice to meetcha.”

 _Meetcha_ , Charles thinks in disbelief. _Honestly_.

“You, as well, Sean,” he manages.

He then turns his attention to Sean’s parents: a kind looking middle aged couple, who seem happy to exchange pleasantries with Charles. Both even take the time to compliment David on his face. Mrs. Cassidy has a fleeting wistful thought that it would be nice to have a little one around again.

“So you’re a professor?” Mr. Cassidy asks, and Charles can tell from skimmed surface thoughts that he’s got an eye to sending Sean to college in a few years. And that, of course, is Charles’s in.

“I am. I’ve been teaching at Columbia, but now I’m taking a leave to handle some family matters. I’m fairly new in town, but I was thinking while I’m here I might try to set up some sort of extracurricular activity for, ah, gifted children.”

Mrs. Cassidy swallows hard, recognizing the euphemism. So they do know about Sean’s powers, then, and that’s very good.

“What sort of activity are we talking about here?” she asks carefully, and her thoughts say, _Does he know about our boy? Will he tell anyone?_

“Of the educational variety, mostly,” Charles assures her. “College prep, volunteer work, that sort of thing. Though of course I’d be remiss if I didn’t also include a few purely fun activities. Mini-golfing, perhaps, before it gets too cold. Maybe a trip to the theater.”

“That sounds very interesting,” Mr. Cassidy says. Charles had him at college prep. 

Mrs. Cassidy nods, as well, reassured that this isn’t recruitment for any sort of cult or terrorist organization. She hears terrible things on the news now and again about that awful Brotherhood of Mutants.

“What do you say, Sean?” Mr. Cassidy asks. “I think this could be good for you. Get you out of the house more.”

Sean, who’s half in conversation with Hank and also idly poking at a battery cell on the table, nods with no great concern. “Yeah, whatever. Sounds cool.”

“Excellent,” Charles says. “Why don’t you swing by on Monday evening, then, alright? Let me just give you the address.”

Sean looks up then and his eyes land squarely on David. “Oh hey,” he says. “A baby!”

Mrs. Cassidy at this point remembers why it is she only has one child.

XXXXX

They continue on with the tour after that little meet and greet. Charles is introduced to many of Hank’s teachers, and he gets the chance, as Alex promised, to brag about how intelligent and kind and wonderful Hank is while Hank stands by and blushes. Many of the teachers seem surprised to see anyone with Hank, and Charles gets the impression that neither of his parents has done this sort of thing before. It’s a deeply sad state of affairs, that, and Charles can’t help disliking them on Hank’s behalf, even though it’s perfectly clear that Hank holds no such resentments.

It’s as they’re leaving the maths room Charles senses another mutant in the crowd of families around them.

“Do you know that boy?” he asks Hank in an undertone, indicating the tall dark-skinned fellow across the hall.

“That’s Darwin,” Hank tells him. “He’s a senior, too, but he’s not in the academic track, so we don’t have many classes together. I see him in homeroom and at lunch. Why?”

“I’ve got a feeling about him,” Charles says, watching Darwin move through the hall with a woman that must be his mother.

“What kind of feeling?” Hank asks, and then he gets it. “Oh,” he says. “He’s got a gift, too? I didn’t know.”

“Did you know about Sean Cassidy?” Charles asks, because now that he thinks on it, Hank hadn’t seemed all that surprised when Sean was invited to youth group.

“Sean’s not very sneaky,” Hank explains. “He broke a bunch of windows in the music room a few years ago. Now they won’t let him take chorus anymore.”

“Sensible,” Charles agrees. “Well, let’s arrange to bump into Darwin in a few minutes. I won’t proposition him in the middle of a crowded corridor, but we may as well at least lay the groundwork. Are you acquainted well enough to make an introduction?”

Hank smiles like Charles has said something funny. “Professor,” he says slowly. “You know there are a maximum of thirty kids per grade in this school, right? There isn’t anyone in the entire high school I don’t know well enough for an introduction.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Charles concedes. “Lead on, then.”

Darwin, who apparently answers to the name Armando in the presence of his mother, is much more aware of and interested in his surroundings than Sean. He looks up and nods amiably when Hank approaches, and doesn’t seem at all phased when Hank stops to make small talk. Charles supposes that, with a mutation like his, not much phases Darwin.

At the very least, he notices David right away and provides the requisite compliments in that direction.

“Hey, cute kid,” he says after Hank gets the preliminaries out of the way.

Charles beams. “He is rather, isn’t he? But don’t let that face fool you; he’s a handful.”

Darwin’s mother smiles tightly and looks at her watch. “Armando,” she says, “we have to get going.”

Her tone sets off warning flags in Charles’s head and he instinctively reaches out to brush against her mind. Her thoughts are sharp and cut through with impatience. She’s meeting someone in an hour and she doesn’t have time for this ritzy tea drinker or his whiny brat, and she certainly doesn’t have time to be bored to death by Norton McCoy’s boy.

“Forgive me, madam,” Charles says icily, and he feels Hank tense beside him at the tone. “I’m sure you have _very_ important business to attend to. I won’t delay you further.”

To Darwin, he adds, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we’ll get the chance to talk again.”

Darwin gives a little wave before his mother grabs his arm and all but drags him away.

“Well,” Charles says, staring after them.

“Yeah,” Hank says, and rubs the back of his neck. “I’d forgotten. His mom is kind of… unfriendly.”

“Yes. Unfriendly,” Charles repeats. “Exactly the word I was thinking.” It wasn’t, but they are in a school, after all. “We’ll have to arrange to meet with him at a time when his mother is not present.”

“Oh,” Hank says. “ _We?_ Do you want me along?”

Charles turns to look Hank in the face. The emotions he’s getting off of the boy are… conflicted.

“Yes, of course,” Charles says. “If you’d rather not, that’s perfectly alright. But I do think we make quite the team.”

“It’s just,” Hank starts, and then hesitates. _I’m not very good with people_ , he thinks.

 _All the more reason to get in as much practice as you can now while you have backup_ , Charles tells him. _But I think you’ll find you’re better with people than you know._

“Babamamama,” David agrees, and reaches out from his sling to try and catch a fistful of Hank’s shirt.

Hank smiles at him, and then at Charles. “I guess,” he says. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just be yourself,” Charles tells him easily. “And maybe tomorrow we’ll make some home visits. It will be easier, I think, to recruit that way rather than trying to make our cause known here and now while everyone is distracted.”

Hank agrees that the plan sounds sensible.

“Perfect,” Charles says. “Now then, where to next?”

“Well, we’ve met with all the teachers I like. We don’t really have to meet the rest of them. Alex texted a little bit ago that they have cookies and punch in the cafeteria. We could head up that way?”

“Yes, let’s!” 

Charles has been ignoring it for the past twenty minutes or so, but if there’s food available, he’s not going to deny that he’s famished. It’s ridiculous, too, because he ate not an hour before Hank stopped by the apartment. He would have thought that breastfeeding would take less out of him once David started eating some solids, but that does not at all seem to be the case. It’s also possible, of course, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to properly hungry in the weeks he was ill and now that the feeling’s coming back he’s simply exaggerating it in his mind.

On the walk to the cafeteria and the promised snacks there, they pass through the elementary hallways and there Charles spies a handful of other mutants. These ones are all young enough that Hank is unfamiliar with their names, but Charles has his own tricks. He knows at once that the fair-haired second grader with the impressive display of collected rocks is Petra, while the surly American Indian third grader with the poster board on animal tracks is James. There’s also a sweet faced little one named Suzanne who is eagerly pointing out her macaroni-art clock to her parents near the first grade classroom.

He subtly points the children out to Hank, who looks suitably impressed.

“I had no idea there were so many other mutants here,” he says. “I’d heard rumors, of course, but the concentration for a town of this size seems very statistically unlikely.”

“It does seem odd from a demographics perspective,” Charles agrees, absently. There’s someone in great distress in the girls’ bathroom. He shields David, who’s apparently undisturbed, still babbling and slobbering happily. Then he tentatively reaches out with his mind to brush against the young lady in pain.

“Professor?” Hank asks, noticing his distraction.

“There could be other factors we’re not taking into account, of course: something biological nearby or perhaps a sociological cause and effect. How well do you know Angel Salvadore?”

Hank blinks rapidly at the sudden change in subject. “Um, not that well. Sorry. We’re not really part of the same crowd. Why?”

“I’m thinking she could use a friend right about now,” Charles explains. “But as we don't have one of those handy, it seems she’ll have to make do with me. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you go find Alex and Scott? I’ll catch up with you.”

He leaves Hank with his confusion and heads down the hall toward the bathrooms. There are two teenage girls heading in the same direction, but Charles gives them a nudge and they decide they’d really rather use the bathrooms on the other side of the building. There’s no one else in the area, everyone apparently headed toward or already inside the cafeteria. Charles doesn’t bother to make himself inconspicuous, just slips casually through the door.

As he’d already known, there’s a girl crying inside the first stall. If Charles weren’t a telepath, he wouldn’t know she was there; her tears are so stifled and silent she might as well not exist, and at the moment, she rather wishes she _didn’t_.

She’s heard him come in, no doubt about that, but she hasn’t taken a peek at the cut of his shoes or marked him out as a man yet. She thinks he’s a lady come to do her business and just hopes it will be quick and she can be left alone again. This isn’t the best place to be alone, she recognizes that, but her mother and step-father have already left and she’s only hung around under the pretext of meeting her friends after the event. She can’t go home, not yet, not before she gets herself together. Her mother can’t suspect – not so soon, and not before Angel’s made a decision.

Charles has to approach this situation very carefully. He can’t come on too strongly. He takes a deep breath.

Then David says, “Uuuumbabababa,” and Charles releases his breath on a laugh.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he tells him. There goes his element of surprise, although he’ll admit, as far as icebreakers go, this one is very appropriate for the situation.

Angel sniffs from her stall. If there’s one thing she absolutely doesn’t want to think about right now, it’s babies. But ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away, either, and she’s smart enough to know that.

“You might as well come out,” Charles tells her, and he hears her shift. “There’s only us here. You, me and the baby. Both of them.”

“What the fuck do you know about it?” Angel asks, and she hadn’t even realized she was angry before her mouth opened.

“Quite a lot, actually. It’s my business to know, you see. I’m a telepath. And I’ve been in your situation.” 

Not quite; he was twenty-four when he got pregnant, not seventeen. But it hadn’t been planned, and he’d definitely had his fair share of breakdowns in those early days. Ah, the good old days while David was still in utero and Charles’s emotions were his own. He longs for the days when breaking down was an option. But that’s neither here nor there.

“Yeah?” she sneers. “I seriously doubt that.”

“Doubt all you like,” he says magnanimously. “That won’t make it untrue. And if it helps at all, he’s worth it. I wouldn’t trade him for anything, no matter how much he cries or how difficult my life became while I carried him.”

Angel’s anger at being mocked starts to wane. “You’re fucking serious?” she asks, voice once again level, if a little hoarse from the crying.  
“You were pregnant?”

“Completely serious.”

The lock on the stall slowly slides back and the door creaks open. Angel pokes her head around the divide. She’s very pretty, all dark skin and curves. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

“What kind of freak are you?” she asks, not unkindly. 

“I’m afraid that would take a lifetime to fully comprehend,” Charles says. He smiles at her softly. “But it may suffice to say that I am man of certain gifts, rather like yourself. Though of course, mine don’t take on the appearance of henna when not in use.”

Her brow crinkles and she looks from him down to David. Charles allows the shields between them to drop now that Angel is no longer in extreme distress. David notices her at last and starts to babble directly at her.

“He’s the one?” she asks. “You were… you were pregnant with him?”

“I was, yes,” Charles says. “And I don’t regret it, even if it wasn’t something I’d ever planned.”

“You’re white, though,” she says in a small voice, and she’s not angry about it, just scared and tired. “And older.”

“I won’t deny that. But on top of those things, I also had a support network: a husband and a sister. You have neither of those things. Angel, you know you can’t do this alone. Let me help you.”

“Why would you help me? You don’t even know me.”

“I do,” he says, and then, because he’s aware that skimming her thoughts doesn’t mean he truly knows her, he adds, “Or I’d like to. If you’ll let me.”

“How?” she whispers, and bites her lip.

“I’m starting a youth group for mutants. Come to a meeting. You and I can talk afterward, just the two of us.”

“You want me to come to some lame-ass kids club?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “I dunno about that.”

But Charles knows the answer to this one. He knows the way to any teenager’s heart.

“There will be pizza,” he offers.

Angel considers this. “Well,” she says after a moment. “I guess.”

“Excellent!” he says, and claps his hands together. “We start on Monday, then. Say six o’clock at the old gym on Maple?”

She nods slowly. “Yeah, alright. I’ll be there.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that,” Charles tells her. “And now, I’m afraid I must get going. I have an appointment with lemon cookies and fruit punch in the cafeteria. Would you like to accompany me that way?”

Angel shakes her head. “Nah, I gotta get home. My mama’s got to get to work soon and she likes to see me on her way out.”

“I’ll see you Monday, then,” Charles says, and turns to go.

“Hey, wait!” Angel says. “What’s your name?”

Charles spins back around, feeling a little silly.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I must have skipped the introduction step somewhere. Baby brain does not disappear once you’ve had the baby, you know. I’m Charles Xavier. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Angel.”

“You know you’re supposed to wait for me to actually tell you my name, right?”

“A formality, surely,” he says, waving a hand.

“If you say so.”

Charles smiles at her, then turns away again.

“Xavier?” Angel asks quietly, just as he’s reached the door. 

Charles glances back.

“Does it hurt?” She doesn’t quite know why she’s asking. She knows it does.

“Oh, yes,” he tells her very seriously. “Every step of the way. It never stops hurting. But when he smiles at you, you don’t remember any of it. Love’s funny like that.”

He leaves her there with that thought.

XXXXX

David doesn’t go down easily that night. He fusses and cries every time Charles tries to put him down, and it’s such a regression from the last week that Charles thinks he might start to cry as well. God, if David’s going to stop sleeping again, Charles is going to lose his mind. He just… he can’t, not again, not on his own. He needs _help_ , damn it, and there is no one. He knows what he said to Angel, about having support, but his support has gone and he’s completely alone now. It makes his stomach churn to think of it. He might be sick.

“Please, Mäuschen,” he begs, and of course his anguish makes David wail.

“Wait,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, child. Please don’t cry!”

He manages three quick breaths in succession and though his head starts to spin, it gives him the strength to reign his emotions in enough to shield.

David doesn’t stop crying all at once, but he does settle eventually.

Charles keeps breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. _Just breathe_ , he thinks. _Breathe and be calm._

Then David looks up at him and _smiles_. Fucking smiles. Like he hasn’t just been bawling his eyes out. Charles has to choke down his fury and keep his shields firmly in place.

“You hate me,” he says to the boy. “You want me to beak apart.”

But it’s not true, and Charles knows it. David loves him. He’s just a baby, that’s all. He has needs and those needs must come first, no matter how it hurts. And it _does_ hurt.

“Mamama,” David says, and slaps Charles in the chest.

Charles swallows hard. His head is starting ache, probably from all the shielding he’s had to do today. He’s so very tired.

“Let’s lie down together, Mäuschen.”

They go into the bedroom and Charles lies on the bed with David on his chest. David seems content in this position, happy to rub his face against Charles’s collarbone and slap his hand playfully against Charles’s side. His slapping has gotten more violent in these past few days, and he seems especially focused on hitting Charles in the ribs.

“Bababuumm,” David says. He yawns and rubs his cheek against Charles again.

Charles closes his eyes and lets his thoughts drift. David is more than content now, oddly enough. He must be touch deprived. Though how he possibly could be when he spends a good deal of every day in the sling is beyond Charles. But now that he and Charles are front to front on the bed, David’s thoughts are a contented golden-silver.

Wait. Silver?

“Do you miss your daddy?” he asks gently. “I miss him, too, darling.”

He strokes David’s hair gently and lets their minds touch. David’s thoughts are babyish, of course, as they always are. The silver is very strong, and it doesn’t seem to be an upset feeling. It’s not… longing for Erik. It’s not even a vague instinctual want. In fact, now that Charles examines the feeling, he can see that it’s not accompanied by David’s other Erik-related senses: there’s no warm smell of metal or tickling touch.

Could it be that David’s not thinking of Erik at all? But who else is there? Who else could cause such a similar thought-pattern in David that the two patterns would manifest as such similar colors?

“Dadadada,” David says. He slaps Charles’s side again and this time leaves his hand there.

“What are you thinking of, love?” Charles asks. He covers David’s little hand with his own, pressing it against his belly. “What are you sensing?”

“Uuumumum,” David says, and thinks _silver-silver-silver_.

And that’s when Charles senses it too.

“Dear God,” he says, mind blank with shock. “What am I going to do?”

Above him, David starts to fuss.


	14. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys rock my socks!

A baby. A goddamn baby.

Charles doesn’t sleep well. Even after he finally gets the Mäuschen down for the night, his mind is whirling far too rapidly to allow any rest. It’s just… a baby. How could he not have known? And what in God’s name is he going to do now?

He should have known. He saw the signs, he felt them so intimately. And still he hadn’t guessed. He’s not an idiot, or he hadn’t thought he was – now he’s not so sure. Stupid, how could he have been so bloody stupid? How could he have not felt it? How could he have let it happen in the first place?

He’s daft, that’s how. And he’d thought he had evolution on his side on this one. Hadn’t Erik said they ought to be using some form of birth control? And Charles had laughed – fucking laughed! – and told him not be ridiculous, studies had proved that women who breastfed consistently had less than a two percent chance of conception in the first year.

But oh, how foolish he must have been to rely on that. Charles is _not_ a woman, and how often does he have to remind people of that once they know of his secondary mutation? He should have known ovulation can't be suppressed if ovulation isn’t a regular occurrence. He should have known his reproductive system isn’t like a baseline woman’s and what works for women wouldn’t work for him. He should have _known_. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t known at all. Foolish. Irresponsible. Idiotic.

Charles had been… desperate. He remembers that now, if it’s the night he’s thinking. If he counts back from when he first started feeling sick and compares it to when he’d first been sick with David, he thinks this new baby must be about fifteen weeks in, and the only incident that corresponds with that time-frame is when he and Erik had been together just after David’s two month marker. It had been such a good week for David and the week before was terrible and the week after was sure to be terrible and David was finally sleeping and Erik had managed to put him that way for once and Charles was finally out of pain from the birth, and he had been so, so desperate for it.

Dear God.

He counts back in his head. Seventeen weeks, then. Seventeen bloody weeks Charles has been pregnant and he didn’t even fucking know. Unbelievable. What kind of a father is he? Not a good one, that’s been made perfectly clear – first he passes along a genetic abnormality that causes David distress every single day, and now he can’t even make sure one baby has a good solid start on life before he spreads his legs to make the next one.

God, what is he going to do? He can’t tell Erik, that’s for damn sure. Erik might deserve to know he’s got another little one on the way, but Charles hasn’t even decided if he’s ever going back to Erik – especially not now. Erik couldn’t even handle one child; how is he supposed to manage with two?

How is _Charles_ supposed to manage with two? Two sets of cribs, he realizes in a sudden panic. Two cribs, two carseats, a double-stroller… twice as many diapers, twice as many feedings, twice as much crying. And only one of him. He isn’t going to make it. He can’t do this, not alone. He needs help. He needs someone, someone that can love him _and_ the baby. _Babies_.

And maybe that person exists out there. Maybe Charles should give Erik up, stop waiting around for someone who’s never going to change. After all, they’ve been together for eight years, married for three of those, and nothing’s been fixed yet. He’d thought it had; he’d been so convinced in the past few years before David that Erik was really, truly happy with him. He’d been so calm, and as sweet as he ever allowed himself to be, and everything had been so good. 

And then David had come along and… Charles doesn’t know what, maybe sparked something in Erik that brought all his unhappiness and anger rushing back. Charles could never blame David for that, not when he loves him so very much. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to think of it – his baby, the little miracle child that was supposed to be their future, and instead his birth has caused the breakup of their marriage.

But does Charles really have it in him to move on? He’s not so sure he does. Maybe that’s why his mother stayed with Kurt all those years, even with all the terrible things Kurt and Cain did to them. Maybe she loved the man. He’s never thought of it like that before, but now that he’s here and walking the same line, he sees how she might have stayed for that reason. It doesn’t make it better, not any of it, but he understands. He may have left – and don’t think he doesn’t still blame his mother for not doing the same – but his heart will always be Erik’s to command. 

And who is he fooling; he can’t find someone else to love them. It’s Erik or no one. It always has been, ever since their minds touched for the very first time on that Miami pier. And if Charles can’t have Erik, he’s going to have to be alone. He’ll just have to manage somehow. God knows how. Somehow.

He puts his hand back on his stomach. He can sense the little thing in there now that he’s looking for it. No thoughts, not yet, nor even feelings. But there’s potential. And despite everything – all the impossibility and all the heartbreak – he wants her. She’s _his_.

 _Please God don’t let her be a telepath_ , he thinks.

Then, unbidden, the thought comes to his mind: _one more baby that will never know its daddy_.

Charles doesn’t cry. He keeps his shields up and he doesn’t cry. But he doesn’t sleep, either.

XXXXX

“You don’t look well,” Kat tells him the next morning when Charles leans heavily against the diner's front counter. “Are you feeling sick again? Maybe you should get that checked out; it’s been going on for kind of a while.”

“I’m not sick,” he tells her. God knows how bad he must look if Kat’s worried about him. “Just tired. David and I had a rough night. Do you have coffee?”

“Sure thing, hon,” she says. “Why don’t you go grab a seat and I’ll bring it over.”

Charles slinks heavily over to the nearest open booth and collapses into the seat. God, he’s exhausted. And poor David must be feeling it, too: he keeps looking up at Charles with a tiny frown and then yawning. It’s not all physical, either; Charles’s mind feels like it’s been broken. He just wants to sleep for about a year and a half, and by then David will be a toddler and this new little one will be out of the fussy stage.

He manages a slow smile for Kat as she appears before him with a mug and the coffee carafe.

“Fresh brewed,” she says with a kind smile. “I think I must have lived off of coffee Alex’s first year. And his second. Actually, probably until he was about six and went to school.”

She laughs.

“I don’t usually drink that much of it,” Charles tells her. Though of course she already knows. He does eat breakfast here almost every day still, even now that he’s been in town almost a month.

“Well that’s because you’re a saint, hon,” she teases. “World’s best father, hands down.”

Charles feels his smile freeze on his face. He’s not. He’s really, really not. He’s got all the theories in the world, knows exactly what needs done for his little ones, but clearly he doesn’t have the strength for it. He’s weak. He's so weak.

“Are you sure you’re not still sick?”

Kat puts down the mug and then uses the back of her free hand to feel his forehead. Charles leans into the touch. Her hand is cool and soft. He’d had a nanny that used to do this for him when he was very young. He doesn’t remember what happened to her, just that she was gone by the time he was old enough to be sent away to school. He doesn’t know what his mother’s hands feel like.

“Kat,” he says, and it comes out a little hoarse. He can feel his pathetic excuse for a baby-shield starting to waver. He takes a deep breath and strengthens his resolve. He’s fine. There’s no need to cause a scene.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Charles has to get himself together before he sees any of the children. He has to be the strong one here. He has to be the adult. He has to have all of the answers because they need him to. And that means he’s got to push all of this down. And if he talks about it now, spills all of his secrets to Kat, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to tamp down on it properly again. He’ll just have to do what he’s been doing this whole time: repress. Not healthy, perhaps, but it’s his only choice.

“Nothing,” he says, and clears his throat. “Nothing. It’s just been a rough night.”

Kat nods, and of course she’s had two babies of her own – she understands.

“It gets better,” she tells him. “He’s only six months. Give it a few more months and he’ll be a lot easier.”

A few months for David, perhaps. But he’ll be starting all over again with this new baby, and he’ll have David to mind on top of that, and easier or not, David will still be a baby by the time his little sister is born.

“Thank you,” Charles says. He manages a smile for her despite the way his stomach is clenching in dread.

“And if you need anything, let me know. Alright?”

“I will,” Charles says, but he knows it’s a lie. He has to do this on his own. He has to find the strength somehow. “Now then, I actually came in here looking for Hank McCoy. Have you seen him?”

“In the back with Alex,” Kat says. “Alex is on stove this morning and they’re having some kind of big serious talk.”

“Right,” Charles says. He picks up his steaming coffee and drains it in three gulps. It burns his mouth. He doesn’t care. “Do you mind if I pop back there for a second? Hank and I have plans today for the kids’ group.”

“Go right ahead,” Kat says. “And don’t forget I’m here for you, alright?”

Charles swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“Thank you, Katherine.”

XXXXX

Hank and Alex are indeed in the back, Alex with a spatula in one hand, watching the stove, while Hank sits at the work table behind him, book on his lap. He’s not reading, but instead is watching Alex.

“- but I talked to Mandy Hines from Admissions," he's saying, "and she said the paperwork’s not due until next month but that she was sure I would be given special consideration because of the coursework I’ve already completed there.”

“Uh huh,” Alex says, flipping a couple of pancakes. 

Alex doesn’t appear to be paying much attention, but Charles feels his spike of panic when Hank continues with, “But I think I’m going to apply to some universities farther away.”

“What?” Alex says, turning sharply to look at Hank. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Hank blinks, surprised, then hunches his shoulders like he always does when he's being attacked.

 _Damnit Alex_ , Charles thinks. _Don’t ruin this for yourself_.

“It would be more advantageous with my major,” Hank says in a small voice. “I – I was thinking MIT, maybe. I think they would be very interested in my abilities.”

“Yeah, ‘til they find out you’re a freak,” Alex snaps.

Charles facepalms. That _word_.

“I’m not a freak,” Hank whispers, but he doesn’t really believe that.

Alex scoffs. “You’re a fucking bigfoot with no social skills! Of course you’re a fucking freak!”

Hank looks away, cheeks staining red.

“It’s a gift,” he says. His words are still quiet, but Charles senses some of the defiance he’d seen the first time Hank had dropped in for tea.

Alex’s hands clench around his spatula. “Ugh, how are you so freaking stupid about this? Flower are a _gift_ , Hank. A nice sweater is a gift. Fucking twenty dollars in a card is a gift. This shit ain’t no gift. It’s dangerous. You’re gonna get somebody killed and then they’re gonna hate you for it.”

He looks Hank up and down, sneers, and then adds, “More than they already do.”

This last bit makes Hank’s spine stiffen, and he looks back at Alex with something greater than anger in his face. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he says. His voice is still quiet but his hands are shaking from where they’re still clenched around his book. “And you can’t change my mind. I am not the dangerous one, Alex, and we both know it. They’re going to want me. And at least someone does.”

He stands, grabs his bag, and walks out – apparently calm, except that Charles can sense his burning anger. He doesn’t notice Charles standing just outside the door, just marches past him with a determined set to his shoulders.

From inside the kitchen, Charles hears Alex say, “Motherfucker!” Then come a series of loud banging sounds that mean Alex is taking his anger out on the appliances.

Oh dear. This is exactly the sort of thing Charles had hoped to avoid with these two. And perhaps Charles is partly to blame for this mess. He had been, perhaps, expecting too much of them when he pushed them toward this conversation. Lord knows it’s not easy to talk about _feelings_ , but he didn’t think it would end in a blow out, either. Probably he should have. Maybe this was always going to happen. Maybe it’s the baby brain clouding his judgement.

Well, now what?

Charles takes a moment to mentally give Alex a soothing pat, then goes after Hank – stopping only briefly to let Kat know there’s a meltdown (please God don’t let that be literal) in the kitchen. He catches up with Hank on the sidewalk just outside the diner.

“I’m sorry,” Charles tells him, reaching up to put a hand on Hank’s shoulder.

“For what?” Hank asks dully. His anger seems to have gone, and it’s been replaced with melancholy. “You’re not the one that fell in love with an asshole.”

Not true, Charles thinks, but at least the asshole he’s in love with is able to admit that he loves Charles also. But that’s largely irrelevant.

“I’m sorry that conversation didn’t go the way you’d hoped,” Charles clarifies. “I’m sorry you’ve been hurt by it.”

Hank shrugs. “That was pretty much what I expected to happen, anyway. I told you before, Alex doesn’t want to be with me. He doesn’t want to be with a _freak_.”

“Hank!” Charles says sharply, and Hank straightens up instinctively, looks at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t you dare use that word,” Charles warns. “I don’t ever want to hear you use it again. You are gifted, Hank. You are a mutant, and that is a gift. And Alex Summers knows that, too, for whatever that’s worth.”

Hank nods slowly, and he doesn’t believe Charles, not quite yet, but they’ll get there. If only Alex would stop making waves on this issue.

“Now then,” Charles says, “are you still game for a kids’ group recruiting campaign?”

He’s not especially in the mood for so much socialization, Charles can tell, but he doesn’t want to be alone right now, either.

“Sure,” he says. “Where are we recruiting first?”

XXXXX

They start with Darwin, who seems genuinely pleased to see them and agrees that yes, he would in fact like to come to a few meetings. He doesn’t have any money for dues, he warns them up front, but he’s pretty handy with a hammer or a screwdriver when it comes down to it. Charles assures him that will not at all be necessary, then gives him the address and the time for the first meeting.

After that, they hit up the little ones that Charles had spotted the night before. The Chan family welcomes Charles and Hank in for tea, and since they’re aware of their daughter’s mutation already, Charles is very frank about the nature of the youth group. Mr. and Mrs. Chan agree that it would be very good for Suzanne to be part of such a group, and call her in from playing in the backyard so Charles can invite her personally. Suzanne, of course, is too young to realize the importance of support networks, but she cheerily agrees that it might be fun to go play with other kids who are like her.

With that victory under their belt, Charles and Hank hit up the other littles: Petra and James. Petra’s parents are unaware of her gift, so Charles resorts to euphemism and highlighting the other developmental aspects the group would focus on. They’re hesitant at first, but they do want what’s best for their daughter and Charles manages to charm them into realizing that attending the group would qualify in that category.

James, it turns out, is being raised by his much older brother. John Proudstar is a sharp-eyed young man with a military haircut and a scowl on his face when he answers the door. On the other hand, he’s a mutant himself, and Charles is able to impress upon him the importance of letting James attend meetings. It’s not a hard sell, in the end.

Charles assumes their recruiting campaign is over after that. After all, they’ve met with every mutant he’d been able to see at the open house event. But just as he’s deciding whether to treat Hank to a late lunch out or to invite him back to the apartment and try to cook something, Hank clears his throat awkwardly and holds out a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” Charles asks, looking down at the two names and addresses scrawled there. Jean Grey and Jubilation Lee.

“Scott had a few suggestions,” Hank says. “They’re both in his grade, but neither one of them could make it to the open house.”

“I see,” Charles says. “Well, in that case, we can’t let Scott down, can we?”

Jean Grey, Charles is very pleased to learn, is a telepath. It’s not her primary mutation – that honor belongs to telekinesis – but her mind and her gifts both have the potential for great strength. She’s the one who answers the door at the first address Scott had provided, and she gasps when she sees them.

The first thing she says is, “I’ve never met a baby telepath before.”

Charles startles into a laugh. _You’ve never met a telepath at all before_ , he reminds her. “But you have, I think, met a good many other gifted individuals. I take it we have you to thank for the _rumors_ Mr. Summers is to have heard about mutants in this town?”

Jean blushes but doesn’t look away. “I never told him any names,” she says.

“I appreciate your discretion,” Charles says. “But I think the time has come for us to see and be seen. Will you join our group, dear girl?”

Jean has no hesitation on this point. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “Sounds fun. Monday at six?”

“Precisely so,” Charles says, and he and Hank take their leave.

After that, meeting with the Lees is a cakewalk.

“Oh, hey!” she says brightly when Mrs. Lee shows Charles and Hank into the sitting room. “Jean just called. Mom, these guys are putting together mutant club – can I go?”

Mrs. Lee has no objections to this, and so after a few minutes of Jubilation squealing over how cute David is, they find themselves shown back out.

“Wow,” Hank says once they’re standing in the crisp autumn air again. “That all went much more smoothly than I would have predicted.”

Charles agrees. “After meeting Darwin’s mother, I expect I formed an unfair opinion about the parents in this town. I’m pleased to see that many of are not only aware of their child’s gifts, but also wholly accepting of it.”

“Of course,” he adds, doing the math in his head, “you realize we’re now going to have to buy a bus. There’s no way we can fit everyone into my five-seat car for field trips. Not even if we double-up.”

Hank has a quick flash of what it might be like to have Alex sitting on his lap with plausible deniability. Then he remembers he’s angry with Alex and dismisses the thought.

“You’re right, Professor,” he says, doing the math himself. “We have thirteen people, counting you and David. And David has a carseat that we’ll have to take into account.”

Charles sighs, remembering suddenly the truth his mind has been carefully avoiding all afternoon. His hand comes up almost involuntarily to rest at his navel, where the baby is definitely becoming visible. Weight gain, indeed. He honestly has no idea how he’d thought this very obvious baby bump was only bloating.

“Two carseats,” he tells Hank glumly. “So you had better bring your count up to fourteen.”

“Two?” Hank asks. “I think maybe Suzanne is small enough to need a booster seat, but surely we don’t have anyone young enough for a carseat. Do we?”

“Not yet,” Charles says. He steels himself. “Hank, I’m pregnant.”

Hank’s jaw drops. 

“Pregnant,” Hank repeats a little blankly. His eyes drop to Charles’s middle then away quickly. “Are you… are you certain?”

“Quite certain,” Charles tells him. “I can feel the spark of her mind.”

“Her? It's a girl?”

Charles nods.

“But who-” Hank starts before realizing it’s probably none of his business and trailing off.

Charles can sense the question anyway. “Erik,” he says. “My husband. We were intimate together a few months ago.”

“How far along are you?”

“Seventeen weeks,” Charles says.

“Seventeen?” Hank repeats, eyes narrowing. “And you can feel her thoughts already? There’s some debate about when a fetus can feel pain, but the argument is usually between twenty and twenty-eight weeks . I had no idea thoughts formed so early!”

“Don’t get too excited,” Charles tells him with a laugh. “I’m not sensing her thoughts. I’m sensing the _potential_ for thought. Her brain is still forming. She’ll start kicking soon and reacting to touch, but it’s all instinctual. She won’t start to form anything like actual thought until much closer to term, and even babies as old as David don’t have thoughts like you or I would have. They simply don’t have the language skills.”

“Fascinating,” Hank says, and Charles is pleased to detect no sarcasm from him. This is a boy after his own heart. “Are you planning on seeing an obstetrician?”

“I suppose I had better,” Charles says. “For all the good it will do me. The mutation is so rare I daren’t let the doctor remember it after the birth lest he publish a paper on it and I become a medical study.”

Hank nods. “That makes sense. Do you have an appointment yet? I’d appreciate if you allowed me to observe. Confidentially, of course,” he adds, as though Charles might be worried about Hank’s secret-keeping abilities. 

“Yes, of course you can tag along.” Charles smiles, feeling incredibly fond of him.

David, who’s just on the edge of falling asleep, feels this fondness and snuffles out a few sleepy babbling syllables.

“You’re alright, Mäuschen,” Charles tells him, patting his bum lightly through the sling.

Hank says, “You’re such a great father, Professor. I bet you can handle two babies without even breaking a sweat.”

Charles feels his smile fade. Yes, of course. That’s him: world’s best father. Always has it together, never loses his cool. God, if only that were true – maybe then he wouldn’t feel so much like he’s drowning right now.

XXXXX

Monday morning finds Charles and Alex back at the youth center putting together the rest of their Ikea purchases (and then taking them apart and putting them _back_ together when they realize they’ve failed to follow the directions). They work mostly in silence, and Charles will admit it’s in part because he’s still sore about what happened between Alex and Hank on Saturday. He supposes he shouldn’t take sides in this mess, but it’s very hard to think of that when Hank is so much like a decade younger version of himself – but without the arrogance or the mean streak that’s kept Charles alive this long. Charles has no doubt that Hank could defend himself if it came down to that, but he seems reluctant to do so, and it strikes a protective urge in Charles similar to what he feels for David.

It does help, though, that Alex feels equally terrible about the weekend’s altercation, and he spends the morning beating himself up about it. Charles lets his grudge brew between them for a while, until David starts to fuss from the tension. At that point, Charles reminds himself fiercely that Alex is also a child and he needs guidance more than a cold shoulder. After that he more or less bullies Alex into a conversation about everything and nothing until his mood lightens enough that David can settle into tummy time with minimal crying.

The proceedings go by quicker after that and they make fewer mistakes on the setup once communication is again on the table between them. Charles has to take several breaks to feed and change David, but they’re on a deadline with the meeting tonight, so he’s sure to make the times he’s actually working count for something. Thank God his early pregnancy nausea has worn off, otherwise he doesn’t know if he’d have the energy for this work. As it is, he finds himself stripping off his outer layers after an hour or so and even after that he’s sweating through his nursing top.

It’s nearly noon by the time they finally get all of the furniture set up and strategically placed. Charles considers asking Alex if he'd rather grab lunch in celebration or just head home and take a well-deserved hot shower. Then Alex looks up at him, pleased smile on his lips, and he thinks idly, _Wow, the Prof's gotten kinda fat_.

"Oh," Charles says and blinks. It stings. It's pregnancy hormones, he knows that, but that doesn't make it sting any less.

"What?" Alex asks, and then he realizes what he's thought and what Charles must have heard. "Shit," he says and the smile drops off his face. "Shit, I'm sorry, Professor. I didn't mean-"

"It's alright, Alex," Charles says, and makes himself smile. It's not really that big of a deal, anyway. "Hazard of being a telepath, I'm afraid."

"No," Alex says, and he looks (and feels) distressed. "No, it's not okay. I'm such an asshole, Jesus. But I didn't mean it. You're… you're totally fine. Hot, even." And he blushes at that, but he also means it, which is immensely flattering and makes Charles smile in earnest.

"Well, thank you for that. But I'm afraid you are correct. I've definitely been gaining weight. And it won't stop here, either. I'm pregnant, you see."

"Oh God," Alex says faintly, and his feeling of shame intensifies.

"No, really, Alex, it's quite alright. There's no harm done."

Alex thinks desperately about how you're not supposed to tell anybody they've gained wait but you're definitely under no circumstances to ever, ever say that to a pregnant person and what kind of asshole would do that, anyway?

"Hey, now," Charles says, and he projects the soothing calm he usually reserves to David. Alex's mind wraps around it like a blanket and clings.

"You're alright. You haven't done anything wrong. You didn't _tell_ me anything. Everyone has passing thoughts and it's my bad luck as a telepath that I sometimes hear them. But there was no malicious intent, Alex. You didn't do anything wrong."

Alex takes a deep breath and nods slowly. "Right," he says. He still thinks he's an awful person, but that's more than Charles can fix in a few minutes. But maybe he can point him in the right direction while he's still emotionally vulnerable.

"On the other hand," Charles says carefully. "You were rather cruel to Hank the other day."

Alex scowls. “He started it,” he says mulishly. 

“Did he, indeed?” Charles says drily.

“Fine,” Alex says tightly. “Maybe I started it. What does it matter? That’s just how it is with Hank. He’ll get over it. It wasn’t anything.”

"And yet Hank walked away from the conversation with the understanding that it was something, after all."

Alex sighs and thinks that he really hadn’t meant for it to turn into a fight. He’d just… panicked and said something stupid. Nothing new there. But Hank usually just gives him a look when that happens, or shoves him in the shoulder and tells him he’s being dumb again. He doesn’t know what it is about this fight that made Hank walk away like that. 

"Do you know why you're not supposed to tell someone who's pregnant that they're looking fat?" Charles asks.

"Uh," Alex says a little blankly. "Because they _are_ looking fat?"

Charles laughs. "Yes, exactly. It's because they know how they look and they're already sensitive about it. If you call them on their appearance when they're already feeling sensitive about it, of course that's going to hurt. If, on the other hand, you called them on something they're not particularly sensitive about - say, their ugly shoes or messy car - it won't be nearly as offensive and they're less likely to be hurt by that."

 _Where's he going with this?_ Alex wonders.

 _Patience_ , Charles sends back, and Alex startles but only scowls a little bit this time.

"The point," Charles says with deliberate emphasis, "is that Hank McCoy is very sensitive about some things and not sensitive at all about other things."

"Why the hell would Hank be sensitive about anything?" Alex cuts in. "He's good at freaking everything!"

"Everything?" Charles asks. "Is he really?"

"He is! He's a fucking genius and he's pretty and he's so goddamn _good_. He never even fucks with anybody unless they push him into it."

"He is all of those things," Charles agrees. "But can you think of nothing he'd be particularly sensitive about? His social status, maybe? Or perhaps his mutation?"

"Oh the feet," Alex says, and he laughs a little. "Oh man, those are freaky as fuck."

Charles gives him a pointed stare.

"Oh," Alex says when the point comes to him. "But, I mean… they're cool, though. Freaky, for sure, but cool, too."

Charles doesn't say anything, just lets Alex work it out for himself.

"I mean. I guess maybe he doesn’t know that last part? About them being cool, too, I mean. Maybe… maybe I should tell him that."

"I think that would be good start," Charles says.

"Okay, then," Alex says and steels himself for it. "I'll tell him."

He hesitates and then says, "Professor, you've read his mind, right? I mean, you can tell what he's thinking."

"When he thinks particularly loudly, yes," Charles agrees. "I haven't invaded his deepest thoughts, of course, but there are things I'm able to tell about how he thinks merely from being around him."

"Can you tell," Alex starts uncomfortably. "Would he ever be willing to… with me, I mean?"

His words don't make a great deal of sense, but one doesn't need to be a telepath to understand what he's asking.

"That's really something you should ask him yourself, Alex. And I'd encourage you to do so. You know Hank would never deliberately hurt you."

"Maybe not deliberately. But that doesn't mean it won't hurt," Alex says, and a wave of sadness rolls off of him. "And even if he went for it, it couldn't last. He'll be gone next year, anyway. He's gonna do something good with his life. And I'll still be here, waiting tables for old bitches who think I'm slime."

"As it happens," Charles says, "that _is_ something I can help you with."

"What, waiting tables?" Alex says, and grins suddenly. "No thanks, man. I'm sure you'd get lots of tips for flirting, you slut, but I've seen you dropping shit all day. I don't think my mom can afford to replace dishes like that."

Charles laughs, startled. "Well if you don't want my help," he says airily. "No, of course that's not what I meant, you scamp. But if you do want to get out of this town, I've got a proposition for you."

"That is the second fucking time you've propositioned me since we met, pal. For the last time, I’m not having a threesome with you!" He's still grinning and his mood is considerably lighter than it had been only minutes ago. Charles considers that a victory.

"If you'd let me finish," Charles says lightly. "I think you should come work for the organization. It would have to be volunteer work, of course, since we're not set up as a non-profit business quite yet, but if you had something like this - managerial work - to put on a resume, I really think that would help for potential future employment."

Alex is torn, Charles can feel it. On the one hand, he desperately does want this job. He wants to be useful and he wants to get out of this town and he _hates_ working at the diner with a passion. But on the other hand, his mother can't afford to hire another waiter in his place, not when she's still paying off his court fees. He can't just go off and leave her understaffed like that.

"It would pay, of course," Charles says quickly. "Under the table, I'm afraid. As I said, we're not set up in business quite yet. But I wouldn't ask you to work for nothing. You will be compensated quite fairly." More than fairly, actually, but that's neither here nor there.

"Let me talk to my mom," Alex says. "But if she's okay with it, with hiring someone else, then yeah. I'm in."

"Excellent," Charles says. "Now, what do you say to grabbing a bite to eat before you have to pick up Scotty?"

"I never say no to food." And that is a cold, hard fact.

XXXXX

The first mutant youth group meeting later that night is not the disaster Charles had briefly anticipated. It is, in fact, rather a success, if Charles is any judge. For the grand opening, parents are invited in for a tour. Charles proudly shows off all of the work he and the boys have put in: the two bookshelves filled with books educational and entertaining, the chest of drawers filled with board games, the room in the back dedicated to sport. After the tour they return to the main sitting area for pizza and sodas from the shop down the road – the icing on the metaphorical cake.

The whole thing comes together quite well. The older children don’t really mingle with littles all that much, but they are all children, after all, and Charles is a professor, not a miracle worker. Still, he does see Darwin helping little Suzanne to her feet after a spill while playing chase with Petra, which is lovely of him. Charles also sees the Greys engaged with John Proudstar in pleasant conversation about children with mutations, which Charles casually keeps Petra’s parents (the only ones unaware in this group, by his count) from overhearing.

Charles makes the rounds, sure to catch everyone at least once in conversation. He’s got David in a new carry position tonight, on the hip instead of his usual front carry, and David isn’t quite convinced that he’s enjoying the new spot. He isn’t quite convinced he likes this crowd, either, but it’s nothing like the city crowd and he gets used to it after a short while.

“Good turnout,” Kat says when she catches Charles in a free moment. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Charles says. “And thank you for coming.”

“You know I wouldn’t miss this,” she says. “And neither would my boys. Alex hasn’t been giving you any trouble, has he? He’s been in such a _mood_ this weekend.”

“No, nothing like that,” Charles assures her. He hesitates, then adds, “I don’t suppose he’s spoken to you about my proposal, has he?”

Kat sighs. Then she smiles. She’s not sad, Charles thinks, but there’s something bittersweet about her thoughts.

“I did my best with Alex,” she says slowly. “And I tried - Lord knows I tried to do right by him. But after his father died… well, it happens that way, doesn’t it? He’s so angry, and I don’t know if I can help him.”

She swallows, sighs again. “You can help him, can’t you? You can give him a better life than I ever could.”

“Kat,” Charles says, heart suddenly aching for her. “It’s not like that. I’m not going to take him away from you. I do want to help him, but I’m not trying to break apart a family. You have to know that.”

“Oh I do, honey,” she says, and pats his cheek. She’s so motherly that it hurts, and Charles wishes he could fix this for her. “It’s not you. That’s just how it works. You fall in love with your kids and then one day they decide they love other things – other people – more than you. And Alex is at that age. I’ve known that for a while. I’m glad he’s moving on. He couldn’t stay in this town forever, not a boy like him.”

Charles nods, pretending he really understands this particular heartbreak and trying not to think of his own little ones. He’s definitely fallen in love with his little Mäuschen, no matter how hard a romance it might be, and he knows he’ll fall just as hard for his little girl, his little Häschen. He wishes there were something he could do to fix this for Katherine Summers.

An idea strikes Charles suddenly. “You know Kat, we have quite a few kids here. And I had hopes of taking them on field trips now and again. We certainly wouldn’t say no to another chaperone once in a while, if you find you have the time. It only seems fair,” he adds playfully, “since you seem to have foisted off both of your sons to my care.”

Kat snorts. “Excuse me,” she says with a smile. “Who is it that feeds the four of you?”

“Exactly why we need you along,” Charles says. “Who else is going to teach these children life skills? I certainly have none to pass along.”

“I mean, when you put it like that, I don’t really have a choice, do I? Sure, why not. Just give me a week’s notice whenever you want me along.”

“Thank you, Kat,” Charles tells her, and he means it. “I’m very glad to have met you.” 

He sees Logan skulking in a corner then (though when Charles had invited him earlier he’d claimed to be quite busy this evening) and he realizes Jean has also noticed the man’s presence. She’s frowning at him, obviously fascinating by his unique mind, and Charles feels her decision just as she starts toward him.

“Oh dear,” he says. This can't end well. “If you’ll excuse me, Kat, I have a disaster to avert.”

So what with one thing and another, it’s not until the night’s over and Charles and Alex are clearing away cups and plates from the empty sitting room that Charles realizes who was missing this evening. Angel Salvadore never showed up.

XXXXX

Charles means the youth center to be a place children can come and go as they please, and so he’s very pleased over the first week that this is indeed what ends up happening. It starts with Hank and Scott, of course. Hank stops by Tuesday after school with his homework and a stubborn determination to pretend Alex isn’t in the room. For his part, Alex does the same, keeps on sorting and tagging the children’s books by grade level and only shooting Hank wistful glances every few minutes.

Scott also comes by Tuesday afternoon, though he ignores his homework and instead makes directly for the back room to bounce around a basketball. He plays on his own for about an hour, then comes wandering back into the main room with a sad little puppy face.

“It’s boring playing alone,” he tells his brother. “Come play HORSE with me, Alex.”

Alex look at the pile of books still to be sorted, then looks at Charles, unsure.

“Fraternization really is part of the job description,” Charles assures him from his spot on the sofa where he’s reading up on non-profit law. “Go play.”

Alex goes happily.

XXXXX

They set up something of a rhythm after the first few days. Alex meets Charles mid-morning at the youth center and sets to work running inventory and improving their collections of books and games and toys. Charles, meanwhile, reads through manuals and guides on creating a non-profit organization, and just generally tries to figure out the best way to fund this venture (because he’s sure funding it from his secret savings account isn’t going to fly for long with the IRS).

They work together, sometimes in silence and sometimes with conversation between them, until school lets out, at which point Alex goes to collect any children that might want to stop by. Petra’s parents requested that she stay until one of them come after work to fetch her (free day care, after all), while Suzanne’s mother drops her off a few hours before dinner to let her play with the other little ones then comes back around five to get her. James seems to have permission from his brother to run about as he pleases, and though Charles thinks he’s a little young for that, he’s accepted that’s not his call to make.

Scott, Jean, and Jubilee (as she likes to be called) usually stop by after school and stay well into the evening, making liberal use of the back room and, when they tire of that, the sofas and game chest. None of them ever seem to do any homework, but again, that’s not what Charles is here for. He’s not their parent or their teacher, and if they ask him for help on schoolwork he’ll gladly give it, but he’s not going to press, not quite yet.

Ideally, he’d like to get all of these children into specialized training to help them harness and control their gifts, but that’s an ambitious thought if there ever was one. It’s a year two or three idea, and he’s going to need much more help for that: actual qualified professionals, probably. Even with his handful of degrees and certificates and specializations, Charles isn’t ready to call himself an expert in the field of child-rearing. Hell, he’s barely keeping himself together with just one child.

The older teenagers stop by occasionally also. Darwin likes to stop by and say hello to Charles and Alex, ask if they need any help. Sean has a tendency of wandering in and slumping down on a sofa with his sunglasses still on and also of performing air guitar solos to a song only he can hear. If Charles didn’t already know he’s a boy who marches to the sound of his own drum, he might be slightly concerned.

Angel Salvadore still has yet to make her appearance by Thursday morning, and Charles is just thinking that he ought to go and track her down when Alex sits down beside him and says, “We should have another meeting. One just for kids this time.” After that Charles gets rather distracted.

“Wonderful idea,” Charles tells him, pleased with the initiative. “What were you thinking?”

Alex shrugs. “I dunno. Just pizza or something. A movie, maybe.”

“A fine plan,” Charles says. “You order the pizza and pick the movie – something appropriate for the little ones, mind! I’ll call the parents and let them know. How does tomorrow at around 7 pm sound?”

Alex agrees, and goes to browse through Netflix. Charles pulls up his document of contact information and starts down the list. He gets no answer at the Lee house so leaves a message to request a call back, but everyone else he talks to plans to attend. He has no contact number for Angel because of course she hadn’t stopped in on that first night.

Just as Charles is finishing up with his phone calls, David starts to get irritated with his favorite rattle.

“Hey now, darling,” Charles says, and goes over to his play mat to pick him up. “What’s wrong? Do you need a change?”

He does, actually, so Charles grabs the changing pad out of the diaper bag and puts it down on one of the side tables. David babbles happily once he realizes where he is – nothing makes him quite so happy these days as getting his diaper changed.

“Hello, handsome,” Charles murmurs to him and David smiles. “You’re going to be so handsome, aren’t you, little one? Just like your daddy, that’s right.”

He’s got the new diaper on but not quite fastened when his phone starts to ring and Charles looks around wildly, realizing he’s left it over by the sofa.

“Alex,” he calls, keeping one hand on David to stop him rolling. “Be a lamb and get that for me, won’t you? It’s probably the Lees calling back.”

It might also be Raven, he thinks. He’s been expecting a call from her for the past few days, but he knows how busy she is in the city.

“Yeah?” he hears Alex say into the phone, and Charles rolls his eyes fondly. He hopes it _isn’t_ Raven now, because he can only imagine what she’d make of Alex Summers.

“Who is it?” Charles asks. He manages to get the fiddly snaps of David’s bodysuit fastened back up at last.

“Didn’t ask,” Alex says from right behind him, and Charles startles slightly. It’s not easy to get the drop on a telepath, but somehow Alex has managed. It’s all the fault of those snaps. Charles hates snaps.

“Some secretary you are,” Charles teases. “Here, let’s trade.” He holds out the baby and Alex manages to take him while fumbling the phone in Charles’s direction.

“Don’t you dare drop him,” Charles warns. “Just put him back on his mat. I’ll have to feed him in a minute.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex grumbles, and then hisses an “ow!” as David pinches him with his sharp little nails. Charles will have to cut those soon.

Well, anyway.

“Hello?” he says into the phone.

“Charles?” the voice on the other end chokes.

But it’s not Mrs. Lee. It isn't even Raven.


	15. Erik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik finally gets out of the Emyn Muil.

Erik takes US-80 from Savannah to San Diego, then Route 66 from Los Angeles to Chicago. He gets no kicks on Route 66, but he does get hit on by a middle-aged woman at the Gateway Arch while he’s admiring the view and daydreaming about taking David there (and alright, David won’t get the same satisfaction Erik does from the structure, but that’s not the point, really). Erik thinks the woman who flirts with him must be in need of prescription glasses to think Erik of all people is attractive and/or in the mood for conversation – he’s not Charles, for God’s sake. And she’s not the first one on this trip, either: a few days earlier a man in Vicksburg had slapped Erik on the ass in a convenience store. Erik admires the man’s bravado, especially that far south, but he still thinks anyone who would flirt with _him_ must be damaged in some way.

“Perhaps you are simply attractive,” Azazel says on Erik’s first Monday back at the office after Erik’s been brooding about it for a few hours.  
Erik raises an eyebrow at him.

“I did not say kind,” Azazel tells him. “But attractive, perhaps.”

“Hmm,” Erik says noncommittally. He doesn’t want to argue about this, not when he’s already in such a terrible mood. The first thing he’d done upon getting into the office was check in the fraud protection tools to see if Charles had pinged on any IPs lately. He hasn’t, and that’s really set the tone for the rest of the morning.

Erik had also come in to a fuck ton of work that needs done, and that never brightens anyone’s day. He goes away for a few weeks and the whole damn place falls apart. He’s not even anybody’s boss, so he doesn’t know why people keep asking him to check their work. He’s good at what he does, sure, but these emails about projects he’s not involved with seem increasingly like they’re not his problem.

Based on the amount of work he has to catch up on and the amount of time it will take him to regroup to go back out on the road, he’s thinking he’ll have to stay in New York at least two weeks. Actually, that timeline should work out perfectly, because he’s going to need someone to cut this damn cast off his arm in another few weeks, and he doesn’t trust Azazel with a power saw – not after last time.

Of course, that means he’s going to be stuck alone in the apartment every night for two more weeks with no Charles to smile at him when his outlook becomes too bleak, and no David to coo softly while Erik gives him a bottle. It’s one thing to be alone in a shitty motel room somewhere in California, and it’s quite another to be in his own home and not have his family there. 

He swallows down the helpless anger that this thought brings and instead clenches his hand around the half dozen musketballs he’d snuck past the metal detector out front and has been keeping in his pocket. It helps, having the metal in his hand, and he lets the balls fuse in his grip, shape themselves into something else. When he brings his hand and the metal out from his pocket to look at his handiwork, the shape he sees is something like a very lopsided statuette of the Buddha. Erik stares at it, dissatisfied. Clearly he needs more practice. He gives it a wave of his hand, and the statue dissolves once more into a handful of small spheres.

When Erik looks up, Azazel is watching him.

“What?” Erik asks, unintentionally snappish.

Azazel blinks slowly “I must tell you something,” he says, very serious.

Erik’s heart clenches in sudden worry. He swallows hard. “Is this about Charles?”

Azazel blinks again and scowls. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

Erik would disagree with that pronouncement – what things are there in this world that aren’t about him? – but he’s too busy feeling relieved to argue the point.

“What then?” he asks.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting: the news that Azazel and Emma have broken up, or perhaps that Azazel is leaving the company – those seem like the most likely scenarios. A very small part of him is hoping against hope that Azazel isn’t going to confess his sudden love for Erik and express his interest in them having hot filthy tail sex together.

What he's not expecting at all is for Azazel to say, “I've joined the Brotherhood.”

Wait. What?

“The Brotherhood of _Mutants_?” Erik asks. Because that doesn’t make any damn sense. Maybe he’s mistaken; maybe there’s some other brotherhood that Azazel has joined instead. The Brotherhood of St. Andrews, perhaps, although that does seem equally unlikely, given what Erik knows about Azazel’s past.

“Da,” Azazel says. “Brotherhood of Mutants.”

Well damn.

Erik studies him. “You’ve gone insane,” he says at last. “They’re a terrorist organization. I should know.”

“Terrorist, yes,” Azazel agrees. “And someone must keep a watch from inside. Someone must expose their plans.”

“You’re spying,” Erik realizes, and maybe that’s better and maybe it’s not. “You really _are_ insane. Do you know what they’ll do to you when they realize you’re working against them? I’ve seen them execute traitors for sport. What makes you think you won’t be next?”

“They could not catch me. And they will not find us out.”

 _Us_. “You’re not working alone,” Erik says. “Are you sure you can trust your companions?”

“With my life,” Azazel tells him, tail curling up around his shoulder to rest over his heart. “She will not betray me. I will not betray her. She stays and she will not leave.”

 _Unlike Emma_ , Erik translates. And it’s all becoming clear now: Azazel had been approached by a woman who had seduced him into helping her spy on the Brotherhood. But what stake does this woman have in it and what does she need from Azazel? And hadn’t Azazel still been caught up on Emma just two weeks ago?

“This is moving very fast,” Erik says. And maybe he’s got no room to talk – he’d known from the instant Charles touched his mind that he never wanted to be without that feeling again. But Charles hadn’t asked Erik immediately after to join a terrorist group, either. “She could be playing you.”

“No,” Azazel says. “No. I approach her. After you and I drink that night. We make love and then she ask me.”

“So you knew she was involved in the Brotherhood,” Erik says. “Before you’d even spoken to her. She’s not very subtle, this woman.”

“I did not approach her for that,” Azazel says curtly. Erik’s clearly offended him. “She is very subtle. She is very sneaky. They will not know her. I would not have known her but that she lets me see. And she has plan. Will expose practices. She will bring down the Brotherhood.”

“She can try,” Erik agrees. “But they rebuild. They always rebuild. And when they do, you’ll both be on their hit list.”

“Perhaps,” Azazel concedes. “But perhaps we find other way. Perhaps we take memory from them. No memory, no list.”

“You’d need a strong telepath for that,” Erik says slowly, fearing where this is going. “Is that what this is about? You need Charles?”

“If Emma fails us,” Azazel says, and he grimaces apologetically. “But Emma will not fail us. She is not angry with me.”

“Then why are you telling me all of this?”

“It is… personal to you,” Azazel says. He hesitates, then adds, “ _She_ is personal to you.”

Erik has a moment of complete confusion at Azazel’s apparent personification of the Brotherhood as a woman. Then it hits him. This woman Azazel is seeing, she’s planning on exposing the practices of the Brotherhood. She’s writing an exposé. She’s a journalist, and she’s personal to Erik.

Gott.

Erik sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

“Raven,” he says.

Azazel says nothing.

“You’re sleeping with my sister-in-law,” Erik says as levelly as he can manage. He doesn’t care about Raven’s sexual activities, and he cares even less about Azazel’s, but they’re talking about more than sex here. They’re talking about bringing the wrath of the Brotherhood down upon Erik’s family. And for all that Raven has been involved in the takedown of corrupt corporate giants and crooked politicians, she’s never done anything this dangerous or this close to home.

There’s no way Erik can’t get involved now. Raven and Azazel can take care of themselves, of that he’s sure, but he doesn’t trust either of them the way he trusts himself not to bring his family into this.

“The next meeting,” he says. “I’m coming with you. You need me.”

Azazel nods. “Need is perhaps strong word,” he says coolly. “But we welcome you with us.”

“You need me,” Erik says again. “You’ve no idea what you’re getting yourselves into. I’ve been a member. I know how they operate. _You need me_.”

“We will see,” Azazel says. “Tonight then. I will come by to collect you.”

Erik nods, and that’s settled, but he has trouble concentrating on work after that. 

He’s not much in the mood engineering these days, truth be told. He’d enjoyed it in school, to be sure, but he’d only really picked it at random because it seemed like the kind of thing he’d be able to excel in. And excelling had been a necessity at that point, because he knew he would never rest until he paid Charles back for all the money that had been spent on him – room and board, tuition, books, even his clothes. He’d been flat broke straight out of the system and had spent every dime he could save on his mission to kill Shaw. And when that mission had been complete – largely on Charles’s dime, as it happens – he hadn’t been able to resist the lure of letting himself be kept. But he knew he would buy the metal for the wedding ring himself, even if took years to save up. And it had, God knows it had.

But now… now he’s not so sure. He thinks there must be something else out there that he could be doing – something that might help people. Something that might help _him_. And maybe that’s the Xavier mentality rubbing off on him. Charles Xavier, philanthropist and teacher, and his sister, righting wrongs with the quill and the sword. And clearly Erik has spent just enough time around them to have developed _compassion_. And wouldn’t Sebastian Shaw just love to learn the monster he’d created was undone through empathy. 

Pathetic. Erik can’t even think about it. He turns back to his mountains of work instead.

At length, Azazel ventures, “You are not angry I bedded your sister-in-law?”

“I’m not her keeper,” Erik tells him, not looking up. It’s taking massive concentration to use his mouse right-handed. “She can do as she likes. As long as you were careful.”

Azazel says nothing, and Erik does look up then.

“How many _times_ weren’t you careful?” he asks, not at all sure he wants to know.

Azazel’s tail twitches. After a pause, he says, “Many.”

Erik scowls. What do Xaviers have against safe sex? Honestly. Granted, he and Charles hadn’t known pregnancy was an option before David, but they’d sure as fuck known afterward, and they’re just lucky Charles hadn’t conceived in their (admittedly very few) times going all the way since then. And yeah, okay, Charles has been preaching about natural birth spacing, but Erik had looked that up and he knows for a fact they’re not as careful as they should be about consistent breastfeeding. It’s just their good luck Erik’s sperm had enough sense not to go there.

The last thing in the entire world they need is Irish twins.

“Well,” he says at last, finding his voice again. “Is blue or red skin dominant?”

Charles will know. Erik will ask him once they’re together again. Azazel had just better hope his baby isn’t cuter than Erik’s or there will be hell to pay.

XXXXX

Erik goes straight to Raven’s apartment after work. He doesn’t bother knocking, just flips the deadbolt and slips the security chain from the outside of the door – and really, it doesn’t seem at all safe that Raven doesn’t have a single wooden lock on her door; doesn’t she know metal benders could break in at a moment’s notice?

She doesn’t hear him come in, either, even though he’s not particularly quiet about it. _Baby brain_ , he thinks exasperatedly, even though he’s got no proof she’s actually pregnant at this early stage. She just keeps on with her phone conversation in her bedroom, even as he stalks down her front hallway and makes himself comfortable on her sofa.

“No,” he hears her say. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s going to be fine!”

There’s a pause while she listens to whoever is on the other end, then she scoffs and says, “Of course people are going to show up. Listen to yourself, you’re getting hysterical.”

Another pause, then, “No, I _don’t_ think you should invite Logan just in case. You don’t have to be everyone’s best friend, Charles.”

Erik sits up, suddenly tense all over. Of course! He’s such an idiot! Who else would Raven be speaking to with such familiarity?

He stands and takes a few quiet steps toward her bedroom, listening intently. Just one clue, that’s all he needs – just one hint and he’ll find Charles tonight. He holds his breath, waiting for more.

Then Raven says, “I know you’re technically living under his roof or whatever, but that guy sounds like a total dick.”

Erik can’t help himself: he starts to choke. From inside her room, Raven swears and there’s the clang-clash of a phone being dropped onto a hardwood floor. Erik barely hears the noise. His head is spinning and his vision is narrowing in. His hands are clenched so tightly he can feel his nails biting into the palms of his hands. And it must be him that’s causing the lights to flicker like that.

What the fuck. What. The. Fuck.

“What the fuck?” a voice says, and it takes Erik a moment to realize it wasn’t his.

Raven is standing in front of him, cell phone in her left hand and wooden baseball bat in her right. “Erik, what the fuck,” she says again. “Knock it off!”

Erik scowls at her. She’d known. This witch had known that Charles has moved on and she’d said _nothing_. She’s going to pay for that.

“Knock it off right now, Erik, or I swear to God I’m going to break your other arm.”

“What do I care?” he chokes out. “What does it matter now?”

Raven gives him the narrow-eyed look of confusion then that she usually saves for Charles’s more whimsical cardigans. “Why _wouldn’t_ it matter?” she asks slowly. “How are you going to drive a car with two broken arms? You going to take the Greyhound on your next hunting expedition?”

In that moment Erik hates her for making him say it. “You know there’s no point,” he hisses. “He’s moved on.”

Raven blinks. “I know no such thing,” she says, and something in Erik’s stomach unclenches enough for him to get the lights back under control. “Why would you think – oh!” Sudden understanding crosses her face. “Logan!”

Hearing the name almost drives Erik back into anger-induced dizziness, but he manages instead to get his hand into his pocket and palm the musketballs there. The metal under his fingertips gives him the strength he needs to stay calm.

“Erik,” Raven says, and she rolls her eyes with what must be exasperation. “Charles is renting an apartment over that guy’s hardware shop. And no, that’s not a euphemism. They’re not – God, they’re not sleeping together!”

It takes a long minute to sink in, but eventually the unclenching feeling spreads out over Erik and he can feel his head start to clear in relief. Gott. It’s the helpless anger that’s the worst. He’s a man of action, not reflection, and when he has no outlet for his anger it always gets the better of him. Erik really wishes he had an outlet.

“How can you be sure?” he asks, and he’s pleased to find his voice calm once more.

“Well, I trust him, for one thing,” Raven says pointedly. “You might try it. I hear it does wonders for a relationship.”

“He owes me nothing,” Erik reminds her. “If he’s moved on…”

“He hasn’t,” Raven says. “But if you don’t get your shit together, he’s going to.”

Erik has nothing to say to that. She’s right, but it’s not as easy as she makes it out to be. It took him years to become what he is now. He can’t change in the space of three weeks, no matter how much he wishes he could. It’s going to take time, and that’s maybe time he doesn’t have. What he needs is a shortcut. But where to find one?

“Anyway,” Raven says, and lets bat dangle by her side. “You’re here about the Brotherhood, aren’t you?”

And oh yes, the Brotherhood. He’s here to ask her what on earth she thinks she’s doing getting involved with terrorists.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing getting involved with terrorists?” he asks.

Raven scoffs. “My job, if you must know. And before you go all big-brother protective on me, let me remind you: you’re not my brother. If I wanted that, I would have told Charles.”

“I’m not speaking as a brother,” Erik tells her. He crosses his arms and lets himself loom over her slightly. “I’m speaking as a former member who knows exactly what these people do to traitors. And to traitors’ families.”

Her face softens slightly at that. 

“We’ll be careful,” she says. “We won’t let anything bad happen to them. Even if the Brotherhood finds us out – which they won’t – we don’t even know where Charles is right now, so how could they find him?”

“He won’t be hidden forever,” Erik reminds her. “He’ll come back once I find him. And I _will_ find him.”

“Good,” Raven says easily. “Then he can do us all a favor and wipe their memories.”

“He won’t like that,” Erik warns.

“Probably not,” Raven agrees. “But if it’s to protect the baby, there’s nothing he won’t do. You know that.”

Erik does. It’s not a kind plan, but it’s a sensible one. Charles will be furious, but as long as he’s home, Erik doesn’t mind. He’ll make it up to him. And it’s not as though Erik could stop this, even if he tried. He’s not a telepath, after all.

Raven’s phone starts to ring and she glances at the name. “It’s him,” she says. “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye before you made me drop my phone.”

Erik’s eyes drop to the phone automatically. “I could answer,” he says casually. “Apologize for ending the call so abruptly.”

“Not a chance,” Raven says, but she’s laughing. “And you can’t stay while we’re talking, either. If you want to talk to him, you know his number: call him yourself.”

“He won’t answer,” Erik says dully. He hasn’t answered yet.

Raven shrugs. “So try harder. And I’m serious, leave now.”

Erik eyes the bat she’s still clutching. He could stay, anyway, but then… he really does need his at least one functional arm.

He makes a tactical retreat.

XXXXX

The Brotherhood of Mutants is not exactly as Erik remembers it, but the feeling is the same: the thrill of anger and energy buzzing through the crush, the too-crowded held-breath claustrophobia of so much diversity in one small room. Their membership has grown since Erik was last in this position: there were two dozen of them on a good day then, but they’re at least fifty strong now. It makes sense, with the government’s mismanagement of mutant affairs, and it will do well to hide a traitor in their midst, but Erik doesn’t like the idea that terrorism is becoming more popular. There was a time in his angry youth that he would have been glad to – and in fact did – join ranks with this type, but he’s not that boy anymore; for all that his anger is still such a problem, he’s come miles from where he was only ten years ago.

“Is it all that you remember?” Azazel asks quietly from his side. Raven, in his natural blue form, is mingling some ten feet away with a man with blotchy green skin and an oddly magnified pair of goggles. She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself, and it may have to do with the way the man’s tongue keeps darting suggestively out of his mouth.

“Not quite,” Erik says, still watching the toad-man. He knows from experience that Raven can handle herself, but it still makes him uneasy to have any member of his family even nominally in harm’s way. “But close enough. Who’s in charge here? There was a woman named Astra the last time. Teleporter. But she didn’t have the stomach for it. Knew she wouldn’t last long.”

“I know nothing of this woman,” Azazel tells him. “Mastermind is in charge now. He is quite a showman. Likes to make an appearance.”

“As long as he can back it up,” Erik says. There’s something in Erik that admires the performance necessary to control a crowd, but he knows presentation without power behind it is a short-lived act.

“We will see,” Azazel says.

“My friends,” a voice booms just then from the front of the room, and silence falls as a man steps up onto the dais there.

“My brothers,” the man continues. As he moves to the center of the platform, the space around him is suddenly changed: the floor is covered with plush red carpeting, and the blank walls are hung with elaborate tapestries.

It’s illusion, Erik’s sure of that, and he thinks it’s likely being projected directly into the thoughts of the crowd. That would explain the slight sense of unreality about the decorations – it must take a great deal of concentration to project an image into so many different minds.

Erik grimaces. He’s glad for this early opportunity to gauge the man’s powers, but he despises telepathic interference in his mind - unless it comes from Charles, whom he trusts completely. He does not trust this man, this _Mastermind_ , and it takes a great deal of Erik’s willpower not to lash out against this invasion.

The Mastermind is speaking again, and Erik forces his attention away from the illusion. 

“I welcome you all once again, my friends,” the man says, “to the future of mankind.”

Tired rhetoric, Erik thinks, and it doesn’t get better after that. The Mastermind flatters the crowd for their foresight to attend such a meeting which will undoubtedly secure their place as rulers of the new world order once mutants take their rightful position of control over the pitiful humans.

“No longer will they control us,” Mastermind says, to great cheers from the crowd. “No longer will they imprison us falsely for the crime of being superior! We will be the masters of this world, and no one will dare challenge our authority!”

“The girl!” someone shouts from the front of the crowd, and others take up the cry after him. “The girl,” they say, “the girl!”

Erik shares a look with Azazel, who seems equally as clueless, then with Raven, who looks like this is the moment she’s been waiting for.

“Ah,” the Mastermind says and grins horribly. “The girl. Yes. The girl.”

The rugs and drapes vanish instantly, and the Mastermind instead directs their attention to the almost-lifelike illusion of a young girl standing beside him. Her skin is dark but her hair is ghostly white. She wears a flowing gown of white and gold. There’s a crown on her head and her chin is tilted up regally.

Erik doesn’t like the looks of this.

“Behold our queen,” the Mastermind says with an artful flourish of his hands. “She shall be our salvation, my brothers! With her at our head, our brothers from other lands will rise up at our sides and our revolution will be absolute.”

Cheers from the crowd.

“She’s a child,” Erik murmurs, and maybe he wouldn’t have noticed ten-odd years ago when he was little more than a child himself, but he’s now a father and that girl is only a child.

Raven gives him a look, one that says simultaneously, _you see why we’re here now, don’t you_ and _don’t do anything rash, you idiot_. It’s not in Erik’s nature to be silent in a disagreement, but he bites his tongue and trusts that Raven has a plan.

Because one thing is for sure now: Erik will not let an innocent child fall into the hands of the Brotherhood of Mutants.

XXXXX

“Her mother was a high priestess in Kenya and the daughter of a Wakandan prince,” Raven explains later after Azazel has taken them back to her apartment. “Her father was a diplomat to Egypt. They’re both dead now.”

“And where is the girl?” Erik asks. “Why haven’t they taken her yet?”

Raven sighs heavily. “That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? They don’t know where she is. After her parents died she ran off into the streets of New York. She could be anywhere now. My sources tell me Wyngarde – the Mastermind – has got eyes all over looking for her, but no leads yet.”

“Lot of trouble for one little girl,” Azazel says. “Why bother?”

But Erik understands now.

“Wakandan vibranium,” he says simply. “They’re going to ransom her to the king.”

Raven nods. “Probably. If they can find her. There’s no way this “queen of the new world order” shtick is legit. Wyngarde’s all talk. But if they find her and if the king agrees to pay them, well… can you imagine?”

Erik _can_ imagine. Erik is an engineer and he’d once had the privilege of touching vibranium in a cultural museum in Washington D.C. He’d felt the power there, the potential. The type of weapon the Brotherhood could make with any significant amount of vibranium is… extremely worrisome. 

“They will not find this girl,” Erik vows. “We will find her first.”

Raven sighs again and rolls her eyes. “What do you think Azazel and I have been doing for the past two weeks, playing pick-up sticks? Of course we’re trying to find her!”

“I know very well what you two have been doing,” Erik snaps. “And I’ll warn you now: parenting is not as easy as it looks.”

“I’m not an idiot!” Raven shoots back. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to get pregnant by accident? No thanks. I’m not Charles, for God’s sake!”

Erik can feel himself getting pissed off and reaches instinctively for his pocketful of metal. The touch calms his mind enough to ignore the insult.

“We’ll find the girl,” he says again.

“No, my friend,” Azazel says quietly, and Erik turns in his direction, prepared to be angry again. But Azazel only continues with, “You have mission already. Find your family. Let us worry about the girl.”

Erik considers this. On the one hand, he’s slowly losing his mind without his family, but on the other, can he abandon a young girl to a horrible fate for something so selfish as his own happiness?

“Really, Erik,” Raven says, much more gently now. “You should go. Find Charles and bring him home. We’ll take care of the girl.”

“Alright,” Erik agrees at last. “But if you need me, you _will_ call.” 

It’s not a question.

XXXXX

Erik doesn’t go to any more Brotherhood meetings after that, figuring that if he’s going to trust Raven and Azazel to this, he’d better start _acting_ like he trusts them.

It’s difficult ceding control like this, especially when he has so little else to distract him. He goes to work, pointedly doesn’t ask Azazel how the mission is going, does his (read: everyone else’s) work, then comes home to an empty house. In the evenings, he paces and listens to Schubert. Sometimes he finds himself standing in the nursery staring at the empty crib and making the mobile spin round and round.

Erik is deeply, profoundly bored with life. What he _isn’t_ is angry about it. He doesn’t know when that changed, but it has, somehow. He’s hurt and lonely and empty inside without his husband and his son, but it doesn’t make the rage flare up anymore.

He would call that a step in the right direction.

Azazel takes a sick day on Thursday and Erik spends all morning driving himself insane wondering whether or not to take Raven’s phone call advice. He’s been resisting this long because it’s bad enough being home alone without the added insult of an ignored phone call. But now he has the privacy and the ideal neutral space. He’s just trying not to get his hopes up. Charles hasn’t answered any of Erik’s calls in almost a month. What are the odds he’ll answer this time?

 _Go on then_ , a voice in his head almost like Charles’s tells him. _Where’s that Lehnsherr spirit, hmm?_

Erik dials. Then he puts the phone to his ear and holds his breath.

The voice that answers is not Charles, and Erik’s chest constricts with sudden instinctual anger at how young and male the speaker clearly is.

But no, that’s not right. What was it Raven said? Trust, that’s it. Trust. Erik trust Charles. He does. Whoever this boy is, he’s not a threat.

“Let me speak to Charles,” he demands.

“Yeah, alright,” the boy says gruffly. Erik hears some background chatter, thinks one of the voices must be Charles but he can’t be sure.

Then there’s the muffled static of a moving phone and Charles says, “Hello?”

And Gott, his voice is the best thing Erik’s ever heard. He can’t help himself – a lump starts to form in his throat.

“Charles?” he manages to choke out.

There’s a long, long pause where Charles says nothing and Erik’s heart tries to beat out of his chest in fear he’ll hang up. Then there’s a sniff and Charles says in a wobbly voice trying to be steady, “Erik.”

“Don’t hang up,” Erik blurts out. “Please. Don’t hang up.”

“No,” Charles says, and sniffs again. “I suppose we need to talk.”

“Yes,” Erik says. His eyes are burning.

“All right, then,” Charles says. “Talk.”


	16. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people I share a server with have _got_ to be wondering why I keep watching just the middle hour of XMFC over and over again.

“Talk,” Charles says, but Erik can barely breathe.

For a moment he feels only a thrill of fear that whatever he says, Charles will refuse him. He’s done, he’s had his chance and this is pointless, because Charles will never come back to him, and what will he do then – how will he ever learn to be alone again?

But the panic doesn’t last long. Erik has never let fear get the better of him, and he’s not about to start now. He braces himself, swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he is. It doesn’t come easy to him to say, but he is sorry. “I’m – Charles, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

He pauses, panting. That had taken more out of him than it should have, maybe.

Charles says nothing, but his hitching breath tells Erik he’s not unaffected by this, and Erik doesn’t know if he aches more at the pain he’s causing or at the relief of not being alone in this.

“Charles,” Erik says, and the word stings in his mouth. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Charles says quietly. “I know you are. But Erik… I’m sorry, but it’s not good enough.”

 _It’s all I have_ , Erik thinks, but he can’t bring himself to say that. “Come home,” he tries. “Come home and we can talk about this.”

Charles sighs shakily. “I’m sorry, Erik. But no. I can’t do that. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.”

“What, then? You’re just going to stay away forever?” Erik asks. It hurts to even think about. “No. Let me see you. Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you.”

“I can’t tell you that,” Charles says slowly. “I _won’t_ tell you that. You hurt me, Erik. You can’t just sweep that under the rug with an apology.”

"Well, what do you want me to do?" Erik asks, and it's more biting than he'd intended.

He pauses, takes a breath. "I'm serious," he says. "Charles, I'm serious. What do you want me to do? Anything."

“I suppose time travel is out of the question?” Charles asks, and the forced levity in his voice sounds jarring and wrong. Charles must sense that too, because when continues, he’s barely whispering. “There’s nothing, Erik. You can’t undo this.”

It hits Erik like a punch to the stomach. He feels hot tears well up in his eyes at last. He blinks but it’s no use: he can feel them spilling out and trailing down his cheeks.

“So that’s it,” he manages to say with breaking voice. “You’re just done with me.”

Charles exhales harshly and sniffs. It might be a sob.

“I love you,” Erik tells him. He doesn’t say it often enough, but now he may never get the chance again. This is it, the end of his marriage. The end of his life, because he doesn’t know what will happen to him now. He doesn’t know what to do. Everything in him is screaming at him to keep fighting, but what can he do? He doesn’t know where Charles is, and how can he force himself on the man he loves, anyway?

Gott, what is he going to do? How is he going to keep living after this? How can he learn to be alone again after having been part of so much more?

The anger in him rises but he pushes it back down viciously. He doesn’t _want_ to be mad about this. He doesn’t want to cry, either, but that’s a losing battle. 

Charles is definitely crying now, too. His soft hitching gasps fill Erik’s ears. It does nothing to stop his own tears.

“Erik,” Charles says softly.

Erik waits, but no other words come, just the choking sounds of a man in pain. Erik caused that pain. He deserves this.

“Can I at least say goodbye to him?” he forces himself to ask. He doesn’t recognize his own voice or the pain in it. He doesn’t talk like this, doesn’t say these things. “Will you allow me that, at least?”

“No,” Charles says and his voice is firm now, sure.

Erik’s breathing hitches three times in succession before he can get himself under control.

“He’s my son,” he says. He wishes he could allow himself the anger. But he can’t. He won’t. He’s not going to be that man, anymore. Even if he has to do it on his own, he’s not going to let the rage drag him back down. He’s going to be _better_.

“Erik, stop it,” Charles says.

“Stop what?” Erik demands, but no - breathe, just breathe until the frustration fades. 

“Stop loving him?” he asks. "I can’t. I’ll do anything you want, but I can’t do that.”

“Just – just stop talking like that,” Charles says. “I can’t… I’m not this strong, Erik. How can I turn you away when you sound like that? How can I refuse you?” 

Hope wells up in Erik like a spring, and try as he might to push it back down, he can’t help himself. Is there… could there be a chance still?

He sniffs, wipes his face with the sleeve of his bad arm.

“Then don’t refuse me,” he says carefully. “Don’t turn me away.”

“But how can I ever trust you?” Charles asks. His voice is still shaking.

“Come home,” Erik says. “Let me prove myself to you. I’m not that man anymore. I’m… I’m changing it. I’m fixing it. What happened that day – it won’t ever happen again.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Charles snaps at him. “No matter how you want to. They’re only words, Erik, no matter how much I long to hear them.”

“Then come home,” Erik begs. “Please. Come home and let me prove it to you.”

“No,” Charles says. “Not yet.”

Not yet. Not _yet_. But that means…

The hope balloons inside of him. “When, then?” he asks.

Charles swallows audibly. “I don’t know,” he says. He takes a deep breath and afterward he sounds calmer somehow. “We need time apart, Erik. We both need time apart. We can’t get ourselves together if we’re too wrapped up in one another. You know that as well as I do.”

Erik wants to argue the point. But Charles is right. Charles is _always_ right, Erik should know that by now. And yet…

“I want to see you,” he says. “And David. My Mäuschen. Let me see you.”

Charles is silent for a long, long moment. Erik counts the silence in painful beats of his heart.

At last Charles says, voice hoarse but level, “Get yourself together, Erik. And then… come find us. If you love us – if you love the both of us, you’ll find us.”

Erik chokes on an unexpected sob. The tears try to well up again. But he hates to cry and he doesn’t want to be upset when this is the first step to putting things to rights.

“I will,” he promises. “I will find you.” It’s not a location. But it is permission, and Charles still wants his love, even if he’s not sure about his own love for Erik now. And that’s fine. Erik will make Charles love him again, just like he’ll do for David. He won’t give up so easily this time.

“I think-” Charles starts, but then pauses as someone on his end says something in the background.

“No,” Charles says, obviously to whoever is speaking. “Bring him here.” A pause, then, “Yes, yes, I’m quite fine. No, it’s not about the baby.”

“Is something wrong with the baby?” Erik asks almost involuntarily. He won’t let himself panic, not yet, but Gott, if something is wrong with David…

“What?” Charles asks him, voice suddenly frightened.

That doesn’t sound good.

“Is something wrong with David?” Erik asks again.

“Oh,” Charles says, and sighs heavily. “No. No, nothing’s wrong with David. Alex has been playing with him but you know how weak my shields are when I’m in distress.”

Actually, Erik hadn’t known that. It’s lucky, then, that Charles is so very good with the baby and never loses his composure. Lucky he’s the perfect father. Otherwise, it would only make the situation more hellish.

But oh, that also means… “You haven’t put a block on his telepathy?”

Charles breathes out a laugh. “No,” he says. “It seemed rather… unilateral, after all.”

Shame flares up in Erik’s stomach at that reminder of their last argument. He pushes it down. He’s not going to be that man, anymore. He’s going to do better. For Charles and for David.

“Let me speak to him.” 

Charles hesitates and Erik pleads with the God of his boyhood to let this happen.

“I’m not sure it would do much good, love,” Charles says.

Erik’s heart stutters at the endearment, but he tells himself not to get too excited. It could be habit that has Charles calling him that.

“You can,” Charles continues. “Of course you can. I don’t want to keep your son from you or keep you from him. And it can’t hurt him to be on the phone. I just don’t know that he’ll respond well.”

I _can’t hurt him on the phone_ , Erik translates. The shame pushes at him again. How badly has Erik fucked this up if Charles thinks he’d hurt their boy. But then, neither of them had thought before it happened that Erik would hurt _Charles_ , either, and yet here they are.

“Let me try,” Erik says. “I want to hear him.”

“All right,” Charles says. “I’ll put it on speaker.”

Erik holds his breath, waiting and hopeful. 

There’s a beep and then Charles says, “Thank you, Alex. Oh, hello my darling!”

And David says, “Dadadadada.”

There’s a sudden pain in Erik’s chest. _David_. His boy. 

He closes his eyes, the better to listen.

“Tell daddy hello, sweetheart,” Charles says.

“Badadadaba,” David says.

“He misses you,” Charles says softly. “I can feel it. Speak to him. I don’t know if he’ll understand it, but… say something.”

Erik bites down on his trembling lower lip.

“Mäuschen,” he stats, and pauses. This isn’t easy. It doesn’t come naturally. He’s not sure he’s ever spoken to his son tenderly, and he _hates_ that.

He thinks of the stuffed mouse. “Ich vermisse dich so sehr,” he says. “Bitte verzeih mir. Du... machst mich so glϋcklich.”

“Bababababa,” David shouts.

“Dein Sohn vermisst dich,” Charles says. “I can feel it.”

Erik doesn’t quite believe that. But he wants to.

Their moment is shattered when a voice in the background yells, “Charles, that Salvadore girl is on the phone for you!”

“Damn,” Charles says. “Erik, love, I’m sorry, but I have to go deal with that.”

“I want to call you again,” Erik says hurriedly, suddenly unsure. Please don’t let this be a one-time occurrence.

Charles pauses, then says, “Yes. I’d like that. Evenings are best for me. And I’ll… I don’t want this to be so difficult. I don’t want to hurt you.”

And maybe he does still love Erik. What else could that mean? Maybe there’s hope, after all.

“Let me see him,” Erik says. “Send me a picture.”

“Alright,” Charles agrees. “I’ll send pictures. And you – you’ll call?” He sounds… nervous now.

“I’ll call,” Erik promises. He sniffs. “I love you.”

“Yes,” Charles says. “I know. And Erik?”

“Yes?”

“’There is nothing that he cannot do, there are no mountains he may not climb, there are no deserts he cannot cross if love leads him.’”

Haggard. It’s not forgiveness, and it’s not a declaration. Those things will come – Charles always forgives Erik, even when he shouldn’t.

But this is permission to _hope_. That will have to be good enough for now.

XXXXX

“You do not look well, friend,” Azazel says Friday morning. “You have bad night?”

“It was fine,” Erik says.

As a matter of fact, Erik _did_ have a bad night. He blames it on all of the emotion of yesterday’s conversation with his family. And then to have to go home and be so alone again. It hadn’t made his nightmares any easier to bear. 

In his dream he was fourteen again and trapped in Sebastian Shaw’s home. His mother was sick, but somehow more so than the first time around, and she didn’t stir when he tried to wake her. He called and called her name, but she did not wake. 

Then a baby started crying somewhere just outside her window, but of course Erik couldn’t leave the house. Shaw would kill his mother if he left, Erik knew that, but that baby was so upset. He went to the window, but he could see nothing. He called for his mother to help him find the child. His mother still would not stir. He looked at her, then looked out the window. He _had_ to find that baby. Could he leave his mother in Shaw’s clutches if he left? Could he ignore the baby’s crying if he stayed?

He opened the window. And then he woke up. 

There were tears on his face, of course. His eyes are sore this morning, and he’s not surprised. He’s cried more in the last few weeks than he has in the twelve years since his mother died. Oh he’d gotten misty-eyed at his wedding and again when David was just born and he’d held him for the first time, but… it hadn’t been like this. Those had been tears of overwhelming happiness and this is… something else, some well of emotion deep inside of him that he’s clearly been suppressing under anger for years. The dam holding back all of his rage might not be filled with rage after all – it might be something deeper, something more terrible yet. He thinks it might be pain. 

The thought surprises him, but he’s not sure why it should – pain has always made Erik angry.

He’s not angry now, though, just tired and sore. He misses his family, but at least he has the hope that he’ll be able to see them soon. And there are the pictures to consider. Charles will keep his keep word on that, he’s already proved it. Erik had woken up this morning to a picture message of Charles and David, cheek to cheek and smiling at the camera. They’re both so beautiful. It hadn’t quite made up for not having them here with him, but is some consolation.

“I spoke to Charles,” Erik tells Azazel once they’re both set up for the day. He tries to sound casual, probably doesn’t quite succeed.

Azazel looks up sharply. “Yes?” he says. “And you have worked things out?”

Erik grimaces. “Not quite. But we’re working on it. He sent me this.” He reaches for his phone and awkwardly pulls up the picture with his right hand. And damn, why had he not spent more time before this practicing ambidexterity. It’s definitely going on his to-do list after he finds Charles and David.

He lets the phone float lazily over to the other side of the office, where Azazel catches it with his tail, the show-off. He studies the picture. 

His pronouncement is, “He looks more healthy.”

Erik agrees. Charles does look healthier. He’d had a sort of pale, drawn look in the few weeks leading up to the Incident, but he’d brushed it off when Erik had asked, and Erik hadn’t been of a mind to push the issue. He’d been… very wrapped up in himself and his own frustrations. It had probably only been stress, but Charles is the calmest person Erik knows, even with the baby, so he hadn’t been worried overmuch.

Now, though, Charles looks well. He almost looks like he might be glowing. Wherever he is, he must be making the most of the autumn sunshine.

Azazel flicks a sideways glance at Erik, then back down to the phone.

“You ask him for body picture next,” he suggests.

Erik narrows his eyes and yanks the phone back.

“My son is in that picture,” he says sourly. 

Azazel shrugs. “Does not make husband less attracting.”

And yes, that’s true. Erik does find Charles immensely attractive when he’s holding the baby. It’s the same mixed surge of want and jealousy he used to get whenever Charles had still been carrying. There's also something about it primal and animalistic: the urge to get _inside_ his mate and leave his mark there, his offspring.

Maybe if he had fewer other problems, he might worry more about that. But it is what it is, and either way, he can’t think of it now.

“Tell me your leads on the girl,” Erik says, and he doesn’t care that he’s being obvious in changing the subject. He’s not going to let this conversation turn to the way sex may soon be back on the table as far as Charles is concerned.

Azazel’s sly grin turns to a scowl. “Nothing,” he says gruffly. “We search shelters, alleys, playgrounds, and find nothing.”

Erik considers this. “And if she’s been picked up by the system already?” he asks.

“Raven searches police records,” he says. “No use. She searches too foster records and finds nothing.”

“Perhaps she’s going by a different name. How old is this girl?”

“Nine, I hear. Or perhaps it was ten.”

“Old enough to lie,” Erik says. “She may know the Brotherhood is after her and is hiding under a pseudonym. Or if she doesn’t know, she could have other reasons to hide who she is. We need a picture, not just a name.”

“Most files Raven says have picture,” Azazel points out.

“Most,” Erik agrees, remembering his own time in the foster system. “But not all. Some children are less than cooperative.” He had been one, after all. They’d had to sedate him to get a clear picture when he was first arrested for the assaults on those bastard police officers who’d brought him in for interrogation; even after they put him in plastic cuffs and an otherwise empty room, he’d still been able to fry the circuits of every camera they brought his way. That had been out of spite and anger, of course, but if this girl knows she’s being hunted, it could be possible that she’s taken similar steps deliberately.

“Tell Raven I’m joining the search,” Erik says. 

He leaves no room for argument, but Azazel’s tail twitches violently anyway in exasperation. 

“You need my help this time,” Erik continues. “You can’t find this girl with paperwork. You need more people on the streets. Tell Raven to start compiling a list foster homes. If this girl has the power of the Kenyan priestesses, I may be able to sense her from street level.”

“How do you know about Kenyan priestesses?” Azazel asks skeptically.

“I make it my business to know,” Erik says shortly. “I was not always an engineer, my friend.”

“No,” Azazel agrees. “Nor I. I will pass along message.”

Erik inclines his head in acknowledgement. He’s got another week left in New York before he’ll be free to start his search for Charles and David once more, and he’s damn sure not going to spend it moping – not when he can be doing something good for once.

XXXXX

“Come on, son, you don’t want to do this to yourself. Tell us how you did it and we’ll make a deal.”

Erik says nothing. He’s been here before, he knows it, but he can’t think when or why or how.

“It’ll be easier for you if you just tell us,” the cop says. “We can’t help you unless you help us.”

“Go to hell,” Erik’s mouth says. He doesn’t have to think about it, it’s what he was always going to say. It’s what he did say, last time.

The other cop grabs his shirt, tips him back in his chair so far two of the chair legs come up off the ground. The chair is wood, the cuffs tying him to it are plastic. They’ve learned their lesson, but not well enough. Erik spits at him, and the cop lets go with both hands. Erik knows he’s going to hit the ground long before the chair overbalances. It hurts, it all fucking hurts and his mother… Gott, his mother lying open-eyed on the grass with a bullet hole in her head and Erik can still see it, can’t stop seeing it.

“Fuck you,” he wheezes when he gets enough breath back in him. “Fuck you.”

“No,” the one who grabbed him says, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Fuck you, you mutant freak. Just admit it. We know what you fucking you did. Admit what you did to your own damn mother!”

“No,” Erik says. _No, no, no!_ That wasn’t him. It wasn’t him, he didn’t do that. He didn’t do that to his mother.

The cop leans down so their noses are inches apart. “We know what you are,” he whispers. “You’re an abomination. You’re a freak. And you killed your mother. Admit it.”

“No!” Erik screams. He screws his eyes shut and reaches out for something – anything to hold onto. But there’s nothing. There’s _nothing_.

“Well, little Erik Lehnsherr,” someone says, and Erik goes cold, because he knows that voice, and that’s not how this memory goes.

“Come on, Erik,” the voice says. “Open your eyes. You know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

Fear takes the choice from Erik and he opens his eyes. The cops have gone and there is only Sebastian Shaw.

“You really did kill her, you know,” Shaw says and smiles when he says it, the bastard.

But he’s right, oh God he’s right. Erik did kill her. He’d known the rules of living under Shaw’s tyranny. He’d failed and his mother had paid for it. It’s all his fault, it’s all his fucking fault.

“No,” he says, but his voice cracks and his eyes are wet and he’s crying and God, there’ll be hell to pay for this. He can’t cry in front of Shaw – he’ll pay for it in pain.

“Oh yes, my boy,” Shaw says. “You know you could have saved her. All I asked was for one simple thing, and she would have lived. Her blood is on your hands and you know it.”

 _No_ , Erik thinks, but he can’t say it. His voice has stopped working. He tries to feel for the coin, the coin he knows he’ll put through Sebastian Shaw’s head. But there’s nothing. There’s nothing but wooden chair and plastic handcuffs. There’s no metal anywhere in the world. There’s only Erik. Alone.

Erik wakes, panting, and his phone in his hands before he even knows what he’s doing. He dials the number on instinct and tries to slow his racing heart. He can’t think and nothing makes any sense. His eyes are burning and his cheeks are wet.

“Hello?” Charles says sleepily.

“I didn’t kill my mother,” Erik tells him, because it’s important he knows. Charles _must_ know this.

He doesn’t realize he’s not speaking in English until Charles says, “Oh God, Erik. Das war nicht deine Schuld. Du hattest nichts damit zu tun.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Erik says, gasping for breath. “I didn’t do it. Believe me. You have to believe me.”

“I know, love,” Charles says softly. “I know.”

Charles stays on the line while Erik pants wetly and half-cries himself into full wakefulness. After long, long minutes, he asks, “Are you alright now, love?”

Erik takes a shaky breath in, exhales through his nose.

“I would be better if you came home,” Erik says honestly.

Charles’s breathing falters, and when he speaks, Erik realizes he sounds slightly congested, as though he may have been crying recently, too.

“I’m scared,” he says, and Erik feels the guilt flash hot within him again. This is his fault. Maybe not everything is, but _this_ thing is. Charles is scared and Erik's the reason.

“Of me,” he says numbly.

Charles laughs shakily. “It’s stupid, I know,” he says. “But I can’t help thinking this is how it must it have been for my mother. And if she’d left…” he trails off.

Erik leans his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “You’re not your mother,” he says after a moment.

“No,” Charles agrees. “And you’re not my step-father. Or Sebastian Shaw, since I know you’re thinking it.”

“Reading my mind, Charles?” Erik asks, wryly as he can manage.

“Maybe I just know you. Have you thought of that?”

“I’m sorry,” Erik tells him, for that and for everything else.

Charles sighs. “Erik,” he starts, and Erik closes his aching eyes, waiting for the rejection.

“I can’t forgive you,” Charles says. “Not yet. But… I do love you. Don’t forget that.”

“I don’t know how you could,” Erik tells him haltingly.

“There's so much more to you than you know, Erik. Not just pain and anger. There's good, too. I've felt it.”

“It doesn’t feel that way from this end,” Erik tells him. 

The more awake and calm he becomes, the more he realizes how special this is, what they’re doing. It’s been so long since they’ve talked like this. They’ve been drifting apart.

“I’m not going to stop looking for you,” Erik says suddenly.

“Good,” Charles says. “I’m counting on that.”

And for the first time, Erik thinks he might be just a little bit closer to fixing this mess – and himself.


	17. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m going to warn you up front that there’s a lot of discussion here about the option of ending a pregnancy. I've given the issue the same level of research I give everything else I write about, but I won't pretend there's no liberal bias: Charles, above all, wants to let Angel make up her own mind about this. 
> 
> If that’s an issue for anyone, please feel free to skip past the Charles-Angel section.

Charles is weak. There’s no other explanation. The minute he hears Erik’s godawful mutt’s accent, he loses all resolve. He gives in. It’s exactly as he’d feared it would be. This is _exactly_ why he’d decided he needed to make up his mind before he spoke to Erik – he knew he’d never be able to resist the lure of that voice. And he was right.

The worst part is, he’s not sorry. His plan has gone all to hell, he’s still scared out of his mind that things are going to go wrong again, and he’s worried senseless about the future. But he’s not sorry. He’s missed Erik so much damn much these last few weeks and just being able to talk to him again eases the constant ache in his chest.

Nothing’s fixed, of course – not the situation and not Erik’s issues. But it’s a start. Talking about it is a start. And maybe Charles has been going about this all wrong this entire time. Maybe he should have stayed – not to put up with it but to have things out with Erik up front and fix everything. It’s not that he necessarily thinks he can fix _Erik_ ; only Erik can do that for himself. But perhaps in leaving like he did, it’s only put off the inevitable work they’re going to have to do to get things back on track. 

That is, if he even goes back to Erik – and even in his moment of weakness he has to believe he still has a choice in the matter. He can’t run forever, he’s always known that, and he’s equally convinced that he could never love anyone but Erik. But there is another option: that he goes back to New York and deals with Erik head on without getting involved with him again. If he put some distance between them, he could keep himself and David safe without cutting out such an integral part of their lives.

It’s a thought, anyway. And Charles has to know he’s got that option open. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to use it, not now that he and Erik are speaking again, but as long as he keeps telling himself there’s an out, he’ll keep himself together and functioning.

Perhaps he’s simply stalling now, giving himself time to decide if he wants to take that other option. He hasn’t made up his mind whether he can really ever trust Erik again, no matter how he loves him, and maybe making Erik search for them isn’t the penance he’s pretending it should be. He might be fooling Erik with that line of thought, but he’s not fooling himself. He just hasn’t made up his mind yet and needs more time.

(And maybe, in his heart, he knows very well that they’re going to end up together once again at the end of all of this. Maybe he’s known it since Erik asked, defeated and longing and heartbroken, to say goodbye to David one last time. Charles hadn’t forced that situation but Erik had sounded so lost and broken that Charles knows he could never cut Erik out of their lives entirely. So perhaps he’s not stalling for a decision at all. Perhaps he’s only stalling long enough to regain his own courage. And then, once he’s not scared anymore, he’s going to go back to Erik. But it’s only a thought.)

XXXXX

Charles has very little time immediately after his call with Erik to dwell on the deeper meaning behind their conversation. He has to dry his eyes, calm his breathing, and go play the mentor to a scared little pregnant teenager who needs his help. Maybe that’s a disingenuous way to think of it, but Charles does have his own problems and yet even still he’s required to fix everyone else’s. He feels at times like this that he’s at the exact center of the universe, and without him, everything would cease to spin. How would these children interact with one another or even with themselves if Charles weren’t here? He loves them already, he swears he does, but that doesn’t stop the pressure to be the perfect conduit from building up.

But he can’t dwell on that. Angel Salvadore is apparently wandering the streets in a town called Transfer, Pennsylvania, and if Charles doesn’t go to her now, God knows what will happen.

He calls for Alex just as soon as Angel hangs up, and says, “Alex, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go deal with that. Will you be alright handling the children on your own?”

Alex makes an appalled face. _Uh, no_ , he thinks, but he says, “Guess I’ll have to be.”

“That’s the spirit,” Charles, because he doesn’t have time for a pep talk and anyway, Alex has this in the bag, he just doesn’t know it. He’s more or less been doing all of the work this last week anyway while Charles supervised and did paperwork and only occasionally intervened.

“Call me if you need anything,” Charles says. “I should be back by the time you close up, but if I’m not, just take the keys home and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I better be getting a bonus for this,” Alex grumbles.

“Oh trust me,” Charles says and smiles innocently, “I won’t forget this when it comes time for your performance review.”

“Performance review?” Alex says, suddenly alarmed. “Wait, what?”

“Got to run,” Charles says, and hightails it out of there.

It takes Charles ten minutes to walk back to the apartment, then twenty more to feed David and get him strapped into his carseat with his favorite crinkle toy for entertainment. Charles is hopeful he’ll fall asleep on the drive, and that does indeed end up being the case. They’re coming up on the time for a long nap, anyway, and that gets them most of the way to the Ohio border without any trouble. He only starts stirring as they turn off of Interstate 80 and Charles manages to distract him the last twenty minutes of the journey with their color-thought game.

Eventually, David does start to fuss, but luckily he holds out until they’re already in the town of Transfer, and from that point it’s just a few more minutes until Charles is pulling into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant a few blocks down from the women’s clinic. Angel is sitting on the curb, knees pulled up to her chest, face buried in her folded arms. Charles grabs an empty parking spot near her and then takes a moment to center himself. He’s going to need to be very calm and he’s going to need to keep David’s shields up. If he fails in either of those things, this whole situation could come crashing down.

No pressure or anything, then.

David is very happy to be out of his carseat and he clings to Charles’s shirt collar as they walk over to where Angel is sitting.

“How are you?” Charles asks, shifting David around so they can sit, too.

Angel turns her face to look at him. She says nothing, only shrugs. She’s not crying, but her emotions are a swirling storm around her and he’d be surprised if she hadn’t been crying before he got here.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“No,” she says, voice dull.

“When was the last time you ate?”

And she doesn’t have an answer for that.

“Come on,” he tells her. “Let’s go inside. Even if you’re not hungry, I am, and David needs fed, besides.”

He stands and offers her a hand. She looks up at him, uncertain, but she _had_ called him, after all, so some part of her must want him here. He doesn’t smile or joke or try to coerce her; he just lets her see that he understands, or he’d like to, if she’d let him. At last she reaches up to grab his hand.

The moment their skin comes into contact, he feels the riot of her emotions that much stronger, and he has to buckle down on his shields for David’s sake. David doesn’t seem to notice, luckily, preoccupied as he is with watching Angel in the shy awe of his newly developed stranger-danger anxiety. He starts slightly when Angel pulls herself up, but Charles nuzzles his hair gently and that’s distraction enough to keep him calm.

Inside the restaurant, Charles subtly pressures Angel into ordering something. She’s not pleased and he can tell she doesn’t feel especially hungry, but she doesn’t fight him, either. She’s not violent by nature, this one, and she’s not especially angry the way, say, Alex is. But she’s got fire within her, he can sense that, and it’s got nothing to do with the powers he knows she’s tamping down on.

Once they have their food and a seat in the back, neither of them speak for several minutes. Charles lets the silence go on, grabbing bites to eat with his right hand and keeping David balanced in his lap with his left. David seems content to drool all over the banana Charles packed for him and to ignore Angel for the time being.

After a while, Charles ventures to say, “How did you get the whole way out here?”

Angel shrugs and stabs moodily at her salad. “Had a friend going to Cleveland. He dropped me off yesterday. I- I guess you have wait like twenty-four hours before they let you go through with it.”

Charles nods. He isn’t as read-up on the abortion laws of each state as he perhaps should be, but he knows some states do have that requirement. He hopes they didn’t give her too much trouble about the whole thing. She’s only a scared young woman, after all, barely more than a child herself.

“Where did you get the money?” he asks calmly. He doesn’t think she would have stolen it, but if she has, they’ll have to make reparations before anyone decides to take legal action.

“I had some saved up,” she says. 

She doesn’t look at him, just watches her own hands. She’s so ashamed and Charles wishes there were more he could do to ease her pain. He doesn’t dare attempt to give her any telepathic sense of comfort; she wouldn’t take well to that, he can tell.

“I can’t help notice,” he says carefully, “that you didn’t actually go through with it. Was it the money? The protesters? Or was it something else?”

She bares her teeth in an approximation of a smile, but it’s harsh and her eyes are filling with tears.

“It wasn’t easy,” she says in a choked off voice. “I thought it would be easy, and it wasn’t.”

“No,” he says, “These things frequently aren’t. And I don’t think you should rush into it. I’m assuming you’ve given this quite a bit of thought?”

He hadn’t picked up on this particular consideration when they’d last spoken, but that doesn’t mean it hadn’t been there beneath the surface.

“A week or so,” she says. She sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve (which would have bothered Charles a lot more before he’d had David).

Charles nods. “You need to be sure,” he cautions her. “But if you are sure, I think you’ll be relieved afterward. Most women are, I’m told. Is this what you want?”

Angel says nothing at first. Charles waits her out, concentrates on mopping up David’s banana-mess before it can spread too far.

At last Angel says, “What would you do?”

Charles considers this. He won’t lie to her, even if it’s more than a bit uncomfortable to talk about these things.

“It’s different for me,” he tells her carefully. “For one thing, I’m not still in high school. I was twenty-four when I found out I was pregnant with David, and I had a job and a husband by then. And, as you said yourself, I’m white. It does make a difference, I’m afraid.”

“So you didn’t ever think about it?” she pushes.

“It really wasn’t an option,” Charles admits. “My reproductive system isn’t exactly structured the way a woman’s is; there wouldn’t be a safe way for me to terminate a pregnancy. But more than that, I _wanted_ him. I was already almost five months pregnant when I realized it, which is a bit late. Not illegal, necessarily, but certainly later than a telepath might feel comfortable with.”

Angel looks up at him sharply at this, eyes wide and frightened. “You could read his thoughts?”

“No,” Charles says quickly. “Not thoughts. But I was aware of him, of his instinctual impulses and his sensory perception. And at that point he was truly alive to me – I knew him to be a baby in the making rather than the half-formed cellular mass I might have considered him to be if I’d known at an earlier stage. It’s very much the same as a baseline woman might feel once her child starts kicking; it all starts to feel very real.”

He knows what Angel’s going to ask before she even opens her mouth. It’s the logical progression, and he can’t blame her for it.

“Can you sense mine?”

“No,” Charles assures her. “You’re what – eight weeks along? That’s far too early.”

“Ten,” Angel says automatically, and of course they must have tested the gestational age at the clinic.

“That’s still quite early,” he says. “I won’t be able to sense it for probably another two months.”

Angel takes this information in. Charles can see that he’s shaken her, and that wasn’t his intention but he knew it was a distinct possibility. Still, he would never lie to a child if he had the choice. She’s certainly old enough to know the facts, even if she doesn’t like them. _Especially_ if she doesn’t like them. This is a big decision, and she needs to be sure. The very last thing he’d want for her would be to rush into this and regret it later, or to not go through with it and then regret _that_. If she were older he wouldn’t be half so concerned, but she’s young and she’s scared and he worries for her.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says at last.

Charles reaches out slowly with the hand not covered in banana-slobber and touches her arm. “If you need more time,” he tells her, “we can come back. You needn't decide right this second. It will have to be soon - you are on something of a time limit - but it doesn’t need to be today.”

She looks at him, then slowly down at his hand on hers.

“What would you do?” she asks again. “If you were me.”

He has no answer for her, not in the way she wants. After a moment, he manages, “I would find a support system. You’re not alone, Angel. No matter what you decide. Don’t let yourself forget that.”

Angel scowls suddenly and yanks her arm back. “Easy for you to say. You’re not pregnant and single.”

“But I am,” he says quickly. When she gives him a skeptical look, he adds, “No, look. I’m married, yes, but my husband and I aren’t together now. I don’t know if we will be again.” And maybe that’s a lie and maybe it’s not, he can’t think of that now.

“But I am pregnant,” he goes on. “Eighteen weeks along.”

“What?” she says, confused, and her eyes flick to David. “But you just…”

“Believe me, I know,” Charles says wryly. “Let me assure you it was not on purpose. I made a tactical decision based on an assumption that turned out to be false. Unprotected sex is nothing to joke with, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Eighteen weeks,” Angel repeats slowly. “But that means – can you feel it?”

“Her,” Charles corrects gently. “And yes, I can. But,” he adds, “just because I’m keeping her doesn’t mean that’s the right decision for you. It’s not an easy thing, parenting, and if you’re not going into it willingly… well, I think you know as well as I do the lasting damage an unwilling parent can do.”

“I’m not my step-father,” Angel says quietly.

“No,” Charles agrees. “I can see that. For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a wonderful mother, if not now, then perhaps sometime in the future.”

“You really think I could do it?” she whispers.

“Yes,” Charles says truthfully. “If that’s what you decide you want. But you need to be sure. Don’t let my opinion influence you on this.”

After a moment, Angel says again, “I thought it would be easy. But it isn’t. I… I don’t think I can go through with it.”

“Then don’t,” Charles says easily. “Come back home with me and we’ll forget all about it. We can form our own little maternity club, you and I. What do you say?”

Angel takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay,” she says. “I’ve decided. Let’s do that.”

David, who has worked through his banana at this point and is now sucking on his fist, interjects with a loud screech of impatience.

“Oh, you’re alright, darling,” Charles says and wipes what he can reach of his mouth with a rag from the diaper bag. “You’re probably going to need to nurse soon, aren’t you?”

David makes no answer except to take his sticky hand out of his mouth and slap wetly at Charles’s side. Sensing his sister again, Charles realizes, and the thought fills him with warmth. If only Erik could see this, he thinks suddenly, but he pushes the thought away. He hadn’t told Erik about the baby for a reason and he won’t – not until he’s sure Erik can be trusted again. But he can’t think about that now, not when he needs to keep strong for Angel. The very last thing he needs in this moment is to burst into tears over things he can’t change.

“He’s pretty cute,” Angel admits.

“He should be,” Charles says, pleased as he always is when someone compliments his offspring, and pleased also to have something else to think about other than Erik. “It’s an evolutionary safeguard. Your neural system rewards you for looking at cute thing, babies especially. It’s how nature ensures newborns will be cared for, especially since they’re so helpless from the metabolic constraints of the gestating adult.”

“Uh huh,” Angel says, clearly losing interest. “That’s nice.”

Charles laughs. “Well, anyway. He is very cute, yes.”

“Does his dad have curls?” Angel asks, eyeing David’s hair.

“When he let his hair get long enough,” Charles says. “Not that he does often, but he did have something of a phase in college.”

Angel snorts. “Yeah, I’ll bet,” she says. “I know what college boys are like. Did he stop showering, too?”

“I take offense to that,” Charles teases. “I was a college boy, you know. Still am, actually. I teach at a university back home.”

“In England?” Angel asks, curious.

 _Of course_. Why do people always think that? Well, he knows why, but it does get rather bothersome to keep explaining it to strangers.

“No,” he says. “I was born here. In upstate New York. My father was from London; he took me back there with him for a time, but New York was always home for me.”

“Oh, New York,” Angel says with the starry-eyed look of teenage wanderlust. “Do you miss it?”

Charles has to think about this. _Does_ he miss it? He’s not sure.

“There are certain things I miss,” he says slowly. Erik, obviously, is at the top of the list, but he won’t burden her with his issues. “I miss the restaurants – sushi bars, that kind of thing. I miss teaching, though I will say I’m enjoying this youth group program very much. What else? I certainly don’t miss the crowds or the traffic.”

“It might be nice to live somewhere with lots of people,” Angel opines.

“You think that only because you don’t have a baby telepath in your care,” Charles tells her.

Angel starts somewhat at that. “Oh,” she says. “I didn’t know he was one.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles says. “He definitely is. And he does not mix well with crowds, believe me on that.”

“Is that why you came to Hammer Bay?” Angel asks. “I guess if you were looking for the smallest town ever, you found it. No crowds there, that’s for sure.”

“In part,” Charles agrees. “It certainly did David some good to get out of the city.”

They fall into a calm silence except for David’s constant mishmash of vowels and consonants. He’s going to need a changing before they leave, and then probably to nurse.

Eventually, Angel looks up at him and says, "Why did you come get me? I didn’t even go to your dumb kids’ group thing. Why would you drive the whole way out here for me?”

“You asked,” Charles tells her. “Isn’t that enough?”

She gives him a look like she thinks he’s mad. Not many people in Angel’s life have been wholly good to her, he thinks. Her mother loves her but works nights and sleeps days, and her step-father alternates between ignoring her and shouting. The man she’d been having sex with left town weeks ago, and Charles can tell she doesn’t think fondly enough on him to even tell him he might be a father.

“Well,” she says at last. “Thanks. I guess.”

Charles smiles at her. “You’re very welcome. Now then, do you want to get some hands-on experience changing a diaper?”

Angel does not look pleased.

XXXXX

Friday morning, true to his word, Charles takes a selfie with David and sends it to Erik. He gets no response – that’s not Erik’s way – but he knows it’s well-appreciated anyway. For all his apparent aloofness, Erik does care about them very much. He’s just not very good at showing it. And with what happened to him as a child, Charles doesn’t know why either of them were ever surprised by that.

The nightmares aren’t a surprise, either, for that very same reason. Erik hasn’t had them for most of their relationship, but though Charles hadn’t given that any thought in the years he Erik was mostly calm and happy with him, he thinks now upon reflection it might have been accidental telepathic interference.

But either way, none of that makes it any easier when Erik calls him in a panic in the early hours of Saturday morning. Charles isn’t even really awake when he answers the phone, but he knows right away something’s gone terribly wrong from the tears in Erik’s voice. He can count on two hands the number of times he’s heard Erik cry in the eight years they’ve been together – and one of them had been Thursday morning.

It takes him a good few seconds to get Erik’s words wrapped around his head and then attempt to comfort him. He’s still not quite awake, but he’s getting there and quickly. And God, Erik sounds terrible: scared and in pain in a way Charles has hardly ever heard. Charles wants nothing more than to hold him. But he can’t, and it’s not fair.

He can feel himself start to tear up and makes sure David’s shields are solid. They are, and he lets himself cry with Erik, because God, they both need it. It’s so hard - why is it so hard? Why can’t things just be easy between them? Are they both so broken that they can never find real happiness with one another?

And what of David? What of the little girl he carries? He brings his free hand down to rest over her. He wants to reach out and touch her mind, draw what comfort he might, but he doesn’t dare – not when he’s in so much distress and she’s only a helpless barely-child. But she feels his hand, or else it’s striking coincidence, because it’s then that he feels her move within him for the very first time.

God. His little girl. His poor little girl. What kind of life are they bringing her into? Will they damage her the way they were damaged? And David – what chance does he have, with parents as broken as they are? What right did he and Erik have to procreate when they can’t even get their lives together? Fuck.

At last Erik calms himself enough to say, “Come home,” and Charles can’t, of course he can’t. It’s not just his life at stake. If it were, maybe he would go, maybe he would allow himself to be weak, but there are three of them now and two of that number innocent. Charles will never be innocent again, not after what part he played in the death of Sebastian Shaw, but his children are innocent still and Charles would not have them hurt, not for anything. And maybe there’s another way – a way he and Erik can be together without anyone getting hurt, but he can’t see it just now and it hurts him so much to think of. Because what if there’s not?

“I’m scared,” he tells Erik.

And Erik knows what he means, what he fears, and he loves Charles so much, understands him so well and Charles wants him like he’s never wanted anything in his entire life. He always has, ever since that very first moment.

“You’re not your mother,” Erik tells him, and Charles prays he’s right.

“You’re not my step-father,” Charles says back. It has to be true. Erik has so much good in him, if he could only find it for himself, and he could be such a good father, Charles knows it. He hopes he knows it. Please let him be making the right decision by letting Erik come find them.

Erik apologizes again, and of course it doesn’t make anything better. But Charles loves him for it, and he tells him so. He loves Erik, and Erik loves him, and even if they have nothing else on their side, that will never be untrue.

XXXXX

Charles spends the weekend playing with David and catnapping. He’s so blasted tired these days, and he’s not sure if it’s more to do with the child he carries or the child who demands his constant attention. Perhaps it’s both, Charles doesn’t know. And if he’s tired now, he can only imagine how exhausted he’s going to be once this little girl is born.

He takes to his old friend the parenting blogs, and there turns out to be quite a section on having two children under a year old. “Two under One” they say, as though a cute catchphrase will make up for sheer appalling truth of the situation. And unfortunately for Charles, most of the advice consistent of things like, _let go of being perfect_ , and _you won’t be able to meet everyone’s needs all the time_ , and _lean on your support system_. _Make sure you get time for yourself_ , they say, and if Charles knew how to make that happen, damn sure he would be doing it already.

Dear God, what is he going to do? He can’t even be the father David needs him to be now. How on earth is ever going to manage two children at once? And yes, alright, that’s the exact opposite attitude these mothers recommend, but it turns out there’s no section on the parenting blogs that advise what to do when your own childhood has damaged you irreparably, and that’s Charles’s problem as well as it is Erik’s.

He just… he can’t stand the thought of David growing up like Charles had: neglected and bullied by turns, constantly the afterthought unless he was directly interfering with plans his parents had already made in their own lives. And through all of that pushed to be the very best at everything for the sake of reputation. His mother didn’t even know about his gifts until very late in the game, and even once she’d found out she certainly did nothing to help him manage them.

He knows that his early life has instilled in him an understanding that he has to be perfect or he’s worth nothing, and he also knows that his standards for himself are higher than anyone else could ever have for him. He’s not perfect, certainly not, but he tries so bloody hard, especially when it comes to the children, and when he fails… well, he’s never not failed. It would be impossible not to fail. But the guilt with each failure builds up more and more, and eventually he’s sure he’s going to cease to function under the weight of it.

Who, then, is really the worse parent here – Erik or Charles? Charles doesn’t know. He only knows they’re not what these babies deserve. And he knows that at least he would never hit their children, and that’s more than he can promise for Erik. Erik is a wildcard still, and Charles just doesn’t know what to do with him. Maybe if he could catch his breath, he’d be able to think more clearly. But there’s no time for breathing, not when everyone else needs so much of his time.

The parenting blogs almost certainly know what they’re talking about, but if changing were as easy as wishing it, he and Erik would be together right now and both of them would be happy.

XXXXX

Monday morning, Charles just doesn’t have the attention span to keep an interest in tax law for long. He’ll admit to being very interested in many things that the general population might consider boring (e.g. the finer points of genetics and biophysics), but he simply does not care about tax law. Perhaps that’s innate or perhaps the product of being raised wealthy (scientifically, it’s a calculable mixture of both, he knows), but just doesn’t care what happens to his tax dollars. Oh theoretically, he’d like them to go toward supporting public education and maintaining public parks and things, but far be it from him to actually trace those dollars or the laws that determine where they’re being spent.

What he needs is to employ someone who likes boring things, someone who doesn’t mind spending hours reading up on the minutia of the legal system. He needs someone very serious and practical, but with enough manipulative ability to keep their organization afloat.

He needs Erik.

Charles laughs at the idea. He can’t help himself; picturing Erik with his nose stuck in a book of tax law is one thing, but picturing him with his nose stuck in a book of tax law in this messy noisy meeting room with children climbing all over him… that’s a sight Charles would pay to see.

It’s also something of a turn-on, and that is absolutely a thought Charles cannot be having with David on his lap. Honestly, he’s not sure if he’s overjoyed or distressed that he’s now feeling well enough for his libido to return. God, it’s been ages…

But no, that’s enough of that. David on his lap, he has remember that.

Not that David makes himself easy to forget. He’s been very busy all morning alternating between playing with his toys and communing with his sister, but in either activity he feels the need to both talk constantly and drool continually. He must be getting teeth, because they’ve soaked three burp rags already this morning and it’s barely eleven o’clock.

“Come up here, darling,” Charles tells David, scooping him up further into his arms. “Let’s get you tidied up and then we’ll take a nice picture for daddy.”

Alex, who’s been researching children’s books at Charles’s insistence on the other side of the sofa, gives Charles a look. “Thought you left his dad,” he says bluntly.

Charles blinks, surprised. He’s not shocked Hank spilled the beans about Charles's marital woes, but it isn’t something that anyone with a sense of propriety would come out and say. Then again, this is Alex they’re talking about. Probably Charles really should have been expecting this.

“We’re working things out,” he says vaguely. “He’s the one who called last Thursday.”

“The one who made you cry,” Alex says, and his concern would almost be sweet if it weren’t so irritating.

“Pregnancy hormones,” Charles lies. “Doesn’t take much to make me cry these days.”

Alex doesn’t look like he quite believes that, but he doesn’t press, thankfully. Instead he says, “Want me to take the picture?”

Charles considers this. “Can you get one that doesn’t me look pregnant?” he asks.

Alex’s eyes narrow and he gives Charles the sort of judgmental look Charles doesn’t think Alex Summers of all people has any right to.

“Oh, like you’ve never lied to your husband about your pregnancy,” Charles snaps.

One of Alex’s eyebrows slowly rises toward his hairline.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that,” Charles says sulkily, “I’ll take it myself.”

XXXXX

Judgments aside, Alex is actually a godsend as far as the youth group goes. He’s remarkably full of good ideas and for all his general sarcasm and rudeness, he’s tremendous with the children. Their Friday night pizza and movie gathering had gone wonderfully, and Charles thinks maybe they should make it a monthly or bi-weekly affair. They’d done two flicks: a family friendly cartoon first and then, after the little ones had gone home, the ten-and-ups put on _Bring it On_ and broke out the licorice.

Alex had been riding high on the success all weekend – Charles had felt his smugness the whole way across town. And now, it seems, Alex is eager to recreate his victory.

“Indoor bowling?” Charles asks on Tuesday, impressed with the proposal. “Where on earth did you come up with that idea?”

Alex shrugs. “It was on one of those dumb kids’ education sites you had me going through for book ideas,” he says. “I mean… if you don’t want to…”

“I think it’s brilliant,” Charles says, and he certainly does. 

“I’ll tell you what, let’s set it up for the little ones tomorrow night. Scott, Jubilee and Jean would probably be interested, but I don’t think we’ll get any takers older than that. We’ll organize something else for the older kids next week. Sound fair?”

Alex doesn’t disagree with this pronouncement, and he and Charles spend the rest of the afternoon scrounging up empty water bottles and laying tape down for lanes in the back room. The whole affair is much more interesting than tax law, anyway.

XXXXX

That night, just after David’s been put to bed, Charles gets another call from Erik. They haven’t spoken since early Saturday morning when Erik had had his nightmare, and Charles thinks the radio silence might be in part because of Erik’s embarrassment about the whole thing. Charles would tell him not to bother with the embarrassment, it’s not like they don’t know each other inside and out, but of course mentioning it will just make the whole thing more embarrassing. Machoism at its most redundant, unfortunately.

So Charles doesn’t bring it up. Instead he says, “How have you been?”

He doesn’t expect an honest answer (see: machoism), so he’s pleasantly surprised when Erik says, “Lonely.”

And yes, alright, that could be emotional blackmail, but Charles doesn’t think so somehow. In fact, he tentatively labels it as progress, because when’s the last time they’ve really talked about their feelings, anyway? The fact that Erik’s defenses are lowered enough for that level of honesty is encouraging. It makes Charles wish he could reach out and brush against Erik’s thoughts, see what state they’re in. It’s been so long since Erik’s thoughts have felt calm, and if they’re in that condition now, it would lovely to bask in them. Charles could use the boost, especially with the way his shoulder muscles haven’t untensed in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and of course he is.

Erik makes a noncommittal sound, and to keep the conversation going, Charles says, “Where are you?”

“The bedroom,” Erik says, and Charles blinks in surprise even as _that_ word in _that_ husky voice makes his toes curl.

“Oh,” he says, trying to ignore the first stirrings of arousal. He’s been so bloody randy lately and it’s driving him to distraction. “I, er, thought you were traveling?”

“I was,” Erik says. “Had to come back to work. And get the cast off.”

“Cast?” Charles says, frowning. Erik sounds very blasé about an injury that must be at least serious enough to have earned him a cast. “What did you do to yourself?”

“Baseball injury,” Erik says immediately, and damned if that doesn’t send up warning flags.

“Baseball,” Charles repeats slowly. “I see. And I suppose you were the ball. And who was the batter, may I ask?”

“I deserved it,” Erik says instead of answering.

Charles sighs and rubs his temple. Of course. There’s only one thing Erik feels badly enough about to allow himself to be punished in that way. Well, two, but only one of them is current.

“That does not make me less concerned,” he says. “Quite aside from the fact that physical punishment is not something that one _earns_ , I really think I ought to have been the judge of that. I made my decision, and you’ll note no one was harmed in the execution of it.”

Erik says nothing, so Charles goes on, “I can take of myself, you know. I could have destroyed you… but I didn’t. And I don’t need anyone else doing it, either.”

Historically, Erik has always reacted very well to posturing and displays of power. Charles supposes it serves as a reminder that the man Erik married is no fragile creature to be commanded. Some part of Erik longs for the benevolent king, probably as a result of early childhood exposure to the biblical Yahweh and to contrast his own helpless rage. Charles, who has an entirely different set of issues and cultural touchstones, has always been happy to let Erik venerate him in this way.

Upon reflection, that can’t be healthy or well-adjusted, but in light of their other problems, it’s not an immediate concern, either. Besides, who is Charles to police the way Erik processes his childhood faith? He isn't blind to the fact that they named their son David, after all.

But that’s neither here nor there. Erik’s obviously in no immediate danger and what’s done is done. Once they come together again, they’ll talk this through, but there’s no point in harping on about it now when he can’t even feel Erik’s thoughts on the matter.

“Tell me about work,” he says, magnanimously changing the subject.

“Work is work,” Erik says dully, and that’s rather concerning. Alright, he’s never loved engineering the way Charles loves teaching, but he’s usually a bit more upbeat about it. He does enjoy himself, as far as Charles knows, though why anyone would prefer machinery to biology is beyond him. But then, that’s a telepath’s bias if there ever was one.

“I go to work, I come home,” Erik says. “I sleep, and then I do it all over again.”

“That’s…” 

Charles doesn’t know what that is. “Not good,” he manages.

“No,” Erik agrees. “Tell me about you.”

Charles thinks about this. “What has Raven told you already?” he asks. He doesn’t think she’d have said anything incriminating, because Erik isn’t stupid: one hint and he’ll be on the trail, work or no.

“Nothing.”

“Well, then. I… The town I’m in has a rather impressive population of mutant children. I’ve started something like a youth center for them.”

“Get them while they’re young,” Erik says drolly.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Charles says, rolling his eyes. “There’s no indoctrination going on. Or if there is, it’s of a moderately liberalistic doctrine.”

“No bible study?” Erik asks, and Charles shakes his head for how much Alex Summers reminds him of this man.

“What do I know about the bible?” Charles asks pointedly. “I’ll leave the teaching of that to someone who’s made a study of it. As a matter of fact, there’s no teaching at all going on in this group.”

Erik _hmms_ , and says “Doesn’t sound like you.”

“Well, I don’t mean to say I wouldn’t like to take over their education,” he admits. “I’m certain I could make a better go of it than most of the lifeless drones in this pathetic excuse for a school they have here. But oh, there I go sounding bitter about it.”

“That’s the husband I remember.”

Charles can practically hear his smirk.

“Oh, you did that on purpose!” Charles says, rubbing his jaw as he laughs. “Don’t goad me into a rant, darling, I’m vain enough already.”

Erik laughs and the sound goes straight through Charles’s body to settle in the pit of his stomach. His toes curl and his hands clench. There’s a squirmy fluttering feeling in his belly and at first he thinks it’s Erik’s voice doing it to him, but then he recognizes the feeling. 

It’s their little girl.

“Oh,” Charles breathes, and brings his hand down to feel her from the outside. There’s nothing, of course, but he hopes she knows he’s there.

“What?” Erik asks, voice suddenly serious.

Charles wavers, unsure. Does he dare tell? Will it make things worse between them? Will it cause Erik more pain? It would be a distraction, that’s a guarantee, and probably a distraction is the last thing Erik needs right now. 

And yes, alright, that’s fear talking – the simultaneous fears that Erik will refuse to wait to find them anymore if he knows, and that he’ll be so overwhelmed by the prospect of another baby that he’ll not even bother to try to find them at all. Charles likes what they have now, with Erik somehow patient and calm and if not happy, at least at ease. Does Charles dare interfere with that for the sake of something neither of them can change?

“It’s nothing,” he says at last. “Just a twinge. But never mind that. Let me tell you about the children.”

Erik listens to him prattle on about Alex and Hank (and their dramatics), and all the others for another forty minutes before Charles starts to yawn between words.

“You need sleep,” Erik cuts in at last. “Go to bed.”

“Mmm, only if you come with me,” Charles says unthinkingly.

He hears Erik’s breath catch and realizes fully what he’s said.

“If you’re offering…” Erik starts slowly, voice low and rough.

“And what if I were?” Charles challenges. “What would you do about it?”

“Tonight, nothing,” Erik says after a moment, and that lovely rough quality is gone out of his voice. He sounds entirely calm and rational once more. Shame. “You’re tired. You need sleep.”

“And once I’ve gotten my beauty rest?” Charles asks, voice teasing. He does sometimes have to draw Erik out like this. Erik may not be entirely in control of his anger, but he’s a man of precise control in all other aspects of his life. And Charles, well, even he will admit he’s always been something of a slag. If anyone’s to play the tease here, it’s certainly going to be him.

“You’ll find out then,” Erik says. And maybe he’s more of a tease than Charles gives him credit for, after all.

XXXXX

Indoor bowling goes extremely very well with the children and Charles goes to bed on Wednesday night feeling satisfied. It doesn’t last, unfortunately, because he wakes up Thursday morning with a headache, feeling like he’s barely slept at all. David, too is fussing more than usual, and that certainly does not help Charles’s headache at all.

He manages to drag himself into the youth center only half an hour late to find Alex more upbeat than usual. Also very loud, and neither Charles nor David appreciates it much for the first three hours. It’s only after David goes down for his nap that Charles lets himself relax enough to recognize the noise Alex has been making all morning.

“Alex, darling,” Charles says slowly, “are you humming 'The Cat Came Back?'"

"Fuck you, no," Alex says at once, but his blush is rather telling.

Charles laughs, delighted. "You can't lie to a mind reader, Alex," he taunts in a sing-song voice. "Admit it, you love this job."

Alex only scowls, but Charles knows he’s right. He’s always known Alex has hidden depths, and with as good as he is with Scott, of course that would translate to being handy around children. He aims to please, does Alex, even if he’d like the world to think otherwise. He’s the brother most of these children never had (though not with Hank, of course – that would be awkward). Charles is damn proud of him. Now if only Alex would rally this same level of determination and creativity and put it into his relationship with Hank, everything would be perfect on that front.

XXXXX

David wakes up from his nap in an even worse mood than before he went down. His fussiness turns into crying turns into screaming, and by the time the children arrive after school, Charles has decided he can’t subject them to this awful noise for longer than necessary. They’ve all heard crying, but this is a whole new level, one Charles has to deal with on his own.

He takes David back to the apartment, but familiar surroundings and less psychic noise do nothing to help David’s temper. He cries and he cries, and Charles rocks him and bounces him and walks him. Still he cries. Nothing helps, nothing ever helps, and Charles can feel himself starting to panic. But, he can’t panic, he can’t feel anything, he has to keep himself separated from the situation. He has to be strong here, because David is only a baby and he can’t shield himself. Charles has to do the shielding for him and that means he absolutely cannot panic.

But God, it’s getting harder to breathe and still David cries. Nothing Charles does is good enough, nothing he’ll ever do will be good enough, and why won’t David just stop crying?

 _Please_ , Charles begs him, not trusting his voice and barely trusting his own mind. _Please stop. Please stop. Please._

He feels the tears start and he thinks they’re David’s for a long confused second, but they’re not, and he pushes them back viciously, because no, he can’t! He can’t cry, he can’t panic, he can’t feel any of that – not when David is depending on him and not when the shields will crash and burn if Charles starts to lose his composure.

But he can’t breathe, either, and lightheadedness is setting in. God knows what will happen to the shields if he passes out. He can’t do that, he absolutely cannot do that. He can’t. But he can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe? Why won’t David stop crying?

Oh God. Oh God. Oh…

“Hey,” Logan says, appearing in Charles’s hazy vision, and taking David gently from Charles’s arms.

Charles tries to cling on to the babe, but he can barely make his arms move, and dear God, he must be the world’s worst father, he can’t even protect his child, not from other people and not from himself. He tries to breathe, tries to get himself back under control, but he can’t… he just can’t.

And where has David gone? The crying hasn’t stopped, the crying never stops, and dear Lord, where’s the baby?

Then Logan’s back and grabbing onto Charles’s shoulders.

“You’re alright, pal,” Logan says through the noise, and he’s not, Charles knows he’s not, but he has to be. He has to be alright, he has to be fine for David. He cannot stop being fine, even for a minute, and so he is fine. That’s how it has to be.

“I’m fine,” Charles tells him, or he tries, but he can’t control his breathing enough for words.

Logan sneers. “Just stop it,” he says roughly. “Stop fucking pretending, alright, bub? You’re not fucking fine.”

Charles reels back, because how dare this man, how dare he tell Charles who and what he is? Charles lashes out, pushes the full force of his power into Logan’s mind and feels… nothing. He feels nothing. Nothing but the slip-slide sensation of a man he _cannot read_. It’s quiet. God, it’s so quiet. The quiet white noise drowns out the wailing in the background. At last Charles manages a few deep breaths in and out.

“You’re not fine,” Logan says, giving Charles a little shake.

The motion snaps Charles out of it, and the screaming comes back full force. It hits him suddenly and the force of the noise knocks him back a step, almost out of Logan’s grip.

And that’s when Charles really starts to cry.

It’s like a pressure valve being released – after the first few slow tears, the rest suddenly burst out into a flood of relief and Charles’s knees buckle, sending him right into Logan’s arms. Logan catches him, lets him cling and sob. Like a baby, and there goes any hope of the shields staying intact but right now he just doesn’t give a damn.

He cries and chokes and he sobs, and David cries with him. They cry together, neither of them separate from one another. He is David and David is him. They’re not two separate people; they’re one in the same. David came from him and David knows him better than he knows himself. And who knows David better than Charles? And now they know this about one another, too. There are no shields. Maybe there were never any shields. Maybe it’s always been this, Charles and David, two together, and the baby girl who reaches out for them and the man who loves them even when he doesn’t understand them.

XXXXX

Charles realizes abruptly that he’s drifting. He’s lying on his back on the bed with David on his chest. David is not crying and neither is Charles, but he gets the feeling they both were at one point. Perhaps for an extended period of time. Probably very loudly.

Logan is sitting in a kitchen chair by the door, examining his nails and pretending not to watch them.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, and his voice is hoarse. “Did we drive away your customers?”

“Didn’t have any,” Logan says, not looking up.

“Oh,” Charles says. He leans his head back and examines the ceiling. “Well, I apologize regardless.”

Logan only grunts in acknowledgement.

Charles sighs. His throat hurts. His eyes hurt. Everything hurts. The little girl within him is particularly restless.

He feels… drained. But not in a bad way, necessarily. His muscles are like jelly; he doesn’t think he could stand now even he were so inclined. He supposes that’s what happens when you have a complete melt down. He wouldn’t know; he hasn’t had one in six months, not since that first night David came into the world and cried and cried and wouldn’t stop. That had been the night Charles had put up his shields, and there hasn’t been a moment since then that he’s been completely relaxed. 

There have been moments, of course, where no one was upset and everyone was calm and there was no need to have the shield up in full force. But he’s always had to be at the ready. David might need shielded at a moment’s notice. And not only from other people, but from Charles himself. And of course he can’t shield if he’s upset. So he just… hasn’t let himself become upset.

He should have known that wouldn’t last. It was a foolish plan from the start, perhaps. But he’s too boneless and relaxed now to let himself feel ashamed for it. He’s too tired. And no wonder, after all that noise.

David, at least, feels none the worse for wear. He feels… calm, actually. Calm leaning toward happy. David is happy. All the crying, all the pain that passed between them, and David scarcely even cares. He’s felt Charles’s heartache and he’s cried himself into hiccupping over it… and now he doesn’t even care.

Perhaps that should be insulting but… it isn’t. Not at all. It’s exhilarating! David _doesn’t care_. David is alright and happy and he doesn’t care that Charles hasn’t shielded him through the worst of it. He’s… he’s not damaged.

And that is something, isn’t it?

Charles sits up suddenly. The muscles of his lower back protest, but he doesn’t care. He smiles at Logan.

“David is fine,” he tells him cheerily.

Logan looks up, an expression on his face like he might maybe at some point in the future consider smiling.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Figured.”

Charles laughs. He doesn’t know when he’s ever felt so free. David is fine! David is absolutely fine! Charles doesn’t have to shield him all the time. He doesn’t have to stop feeling things. Maybe he’d had to, once upon a time when David was newborn, but things have changed and _David_ has changed and Charles is allowed to _feel again_. Maybe those mothers on the blogs know what they’re about after all - he really doesn’t have to be perfect!

Oh, there will be a learning curve, he’s sure of it. He’s spent so long now repressing his emotion that it won’t be easy to just let himself _feel_. And David has never been exposed to that before; he won’t take easy to it. But they’ll learn, both of them, and they won’t stop just because it’s hard. 

And then, when Erik comes for them, they’ll be ready.


	18. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: At last we come to it: the toy scene, aka, the entire reason I started writing this fic in the first place (though how that fun little idea turned into this angsty mess, I have no idea). Also, as you can probably tell, these chapters are moving in a decidedly NSFW direction.

“Uh, are you okay, man?”

It’s Friday morning and Charles is having a catnap on the sofa at the youth center, David cradled in the sling on his chest. Alex is hovering anxiously somewhere near his feet. Charles isn’t too concerned.

“Hmm,” Charles says. “I’m fine.”

And he is. He’s still feeling the emotional washout from yesterday’s temper tantrum, and though he’s inclined to feel guilty about the whole thing, he hasn’t once brought the shields back up between himself and the Mäuschen.

“Um, are you sure?” Alex presses. “’Cuz you seem kinda…” he trails off nervously.

“Alex,” Charles snaps, reading the thought. He cracks an eye irritably. “I have _not_ been drinking. I’m pregnant, for God’s sake.”

“Oh,” Alex says, and then, “What, you can’t do that when you’re pregnant?”

Charles lets his head fall back to bounce lightly against the cushion. 

“I’m having sudden concerns about the fact that we let you around children,” he tells the ceiling.

He can feel the force of Alex’s scowl without even looking at him.

“Oh, whatever,” he grumps. “How am I supposed to know? It’s not like I have kids!”

“And thank God for that,” Charles says, but not unkindly. “But speaking of you getting your act together…”

He ignores Alex’s indignant squawk and grins for the joy of hearing it. If he can’t have Erik here to tease, he can at least have little Alex Summers at his disposal.

“Speaking of you getting your act together,” Charles repeats more loudly. “Where are my new children’s books, hmm?”

Alex huffs. “I’m working on it!” he says indignantly. “I’ve gotta have Hank show me how to do the price compare thing again.”

Charles makes a non-committal sound. “Well, don’t dally,” he says. “Suzanne’s been asking for more _Junie B. Jones_ to read, and Scott and Jubilee are nearly through _Deltora Quest_ and are going to want _Shadowlands_ next. Plus I promised Angel in the car on Thursday that I’d find her the novel version of that new movie, _Lights Among Oceans_ , or whatever it’s called.” Although to be honest he’d seen the trailer for that movie and he’s not sure it’s what she needs right now. But, well, he certainly won’t be able to keep her from the heartbreak of parenthood for long, and if that’s what she wants, who he is to tell her otherwise?

“Ugh,” Alex says. “That’s like ten more books, Professor!”

“Best not waste any time then, yes?”

Alex scowls, but he goes to fetch the laptop anyway. “Don’t see why _you_ can’t look these up,” he grumbles as the user computer powers on.

Charles waves an unconcerned hand. “I’m management,” he says in his poshest voice.

The truth is that though group activities are certainly much easier with two adults present, filling the hours in the mornings before the children come by is sometimes rather difficult. But he can’t leave poor Alex here on his own, and he also can’t cut down the boy’s working hours, not if he wants to keep paying him a living wage. Oh, he’d offer a higher salary in a second if he thought the Summers family would accept that, but they’re proud and he won’t insult them that way. So instead he’s forced to find them both busy work all morning, and if that means sending Alex on scouring missions for the best-priced books, so be it. Someday, once this venture takes off and they have more children and a more expansive curriculum, there will be enough work to go around. Until then, they’ll have to make do.

“Besides,” Charles adds, as the thought strikes him, “Hank hasn’t shown _me_ how to the, er, ‘price compare thing.’ So that means it’s all on you, my boy.”

Alex says nothing, just glares at the screen of the laptop. He’s not really upset, Charles can tell, just vaguely irritated. He would much rather be doing this than working at the diner, Charles knows that without even asking.

“Incidentally,” Charles goes on, more carefully now, because this is rather delicate. “How are things with Hank? Have you two made up yet?”

They’re talking, certainly, and Hank hasn’t mentioned the argument since that day it happened, as far as Charles knows. But still the atmosphere around them is strained and Hank has been quieter than ordinary, too: even more likely than usual to pull out a book rather than sit down to a game of Monopoly with the children. It’s worrying in its own way, and if Charles were less stuck on his own problems, he’d have addressed it before now.

But no, no use in thinking like that. He can’t be perfect, after all, even if he’d still really very much like to be. He can’t let himself feel guilty for taking time to address his own needs (and maybe if he keeps telling himself that on repeat he might at some point in the very distant future start to believe it). The only thing he can do at this point is make plans to spend some quality time alone with Hank very soon.

David starts to stir at the increase in negative emotion around him, but Charles crushes the instinct to throw up his shields. Instead he rides out the emotion and runs one hand soothingly down David’s back. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, and somehow he does.

When David is quiet again, Charles turns his focus back on Alex, who definitely has not yet answered the question at hand.

“Well?” he asks.

Alex looks up at Charles then quickly away. “I can’t do it,” he says. “I thought I could do it, but I can’t. I mean, what’s the point, right? He’s never gonna go for it. He can do better than me. He _deserves_ better than me.”

Charles nods, thinking. “I see,” he says carefully. “What is it he deserves, exactly?”

Alex shrugs and fidgets. He certainly doesn’t want to be talking about _feelings_ , that’s plain. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “Someone who’s not an asshole, I guess. Someone who won’t hurt him.”

“Oh, Alex,” Charles breathes. He realizes he can’t be having this conversation lying down, so he puts one steadying hand on David’s back and pushes himself up with the other. He pauses a moment to be sure David won’t wake. He doesn’t and Charles sighs in relief.

“Alex,” he says again, words careful, “You must know everyone gets hurt sometimes. Even by people who really love them.”

“Then what’s the point?” Alex asks, eyes desperate.

Charles sighs. Straight to the tough questions, isn’t it?

“Well,” he says, considering, “from an evolutionary perspective, love is a safeguard for the species. A couple who love one another will be far more likely to protect each other and their offspring and thereby pass on their genetic material. The next generation, then, will also possess whatever genetic anomaly causes the tendency to love, and in turn they pass it on to their own offspring. Essentially our brains have been conditioned over millions of years to reward attachment behavior with the release of serotonin and dopamine... But to be quite honest, Alex, I don’t think that’s why we do it.”

Alex blinks at him, realizes he’s finished talking science, and makes a little go-on hand-waving gesture.

Charles laughs softly and runs a hand through David’s curls: brown for now but Charles has a notion they'll lighten to have a hint of red like his Daddy’s.

“I think people just like being in love. And once you find someone who, for whatever reason, triggers that emotional response in you, you do anything you can to hold onto them. Ideally, you complement one another in crucial ways – and I don’t mean you flatter one another, though of course it’s always nice to find someone who will compliment you in that way, also. But love is hard work, Alex, and to make it last, you have to support one another.”

“And what about you?” Alex asks, voice suddenly accusing. “You’re taking _him_ back aren’t you, even after what he did to you. How the hell is he _supporting_ you?”

Charles sucks in a startled breath.

Alex sees the look on his face and scowls. “What, you think I didn’t know? I’m not fucking stupid, alright! I know he punched you. And you’re just gonna go right back to him. You’re all talk.”

“No,” Charles says quickly. “No. It’s not like that. There’s no _just_ about it. I’m not doing anything rashly. I’ve put him off thus far, haven’t I? And didn’t I just tell love is hard work? He and I are no exception, I promise you that. Or are you about to tell me you’ve never hurt anyone you love?”

Alex says nothing, because of course he can make no such claim. It’s not physical, what he’s done to Hank, but it’s a hurt all the same.

“Don’t mistake me,” Charles says. “I don’t take it lightly what he’s done. It was a terrible thing and not easily forgiven – I _haven’t_ forgiven him. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love him. And he’s… he’s working things out on his own while we’re apart. If he works them out to my satisfaction, I will eventually forgive him, and in time I’ll come to trust him again. I’m confident in that.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Alex says harshly, and Charles knows he’s only half talking about Erik. They’re so very much alike, Erik and Alex. It’s almost painful.

“Perhaps,” Charles concedes. “But don’t mistake me for a saint, Alex. I have my own set of issues. And what Erik did was awful, as I’ve said, but it wasn’t done in a vacuum. There were circumstances. There always are.”

Alex snorts.

“No, listen,” Charles says. “I’m not saying it wasn’t his fault. Of course it was. He’s entirely responsible for his behavior and don’t think he hasn’t punished himself for what he’s done.” Something Alex knows a bit about, after all, even if his methods of self-harm aren’t as advanced as Erik’s have come to be. God, a baseball accident, indeed.

“My husband is a good man,” Charles goes on carefully. “Not always a kind one, but he has so much good in him. He’s a steady husband, for the most part, a wonderful lover, and he loves David more than his own life. But… he does have a terrible anger in him. And that’s not entirely his own doing. My Erik did not have an easy childhood.

“There’s no excuse,” Alex spits. “You’re either an asshole or you’re not. You can’t blame that on anybody but yourself. And if you are one, you deserve what you get.”

“You’re quite mistaken on that,” Charles tells him, voice still as gentle as he can make it. This isn’t about Erik, not in the end. “I’m going to tell you a story, and I want to you to listen to me because I need you to understand that Erik is not the monster you’ve made him out to be in your head.” And neither is Alex, even if he’d like to think himself one.

After a tense moment, Alex nods slowly. Charles continues.

“Erik’s mother was very far from home. And very lonely. They came here from Germany when Erik was child, but his father died a few years later. And then his mother met a man. She didn’t know it then, but he was… a very unkind man.”

That description doesn’t really do justice to the terror that was Sebastian Shaw, but Alex doesn’t need to know the details.

“This man romanced Erik’s mother, and very quickly he came into complete control over their lives. They couldn’t leave the house without his permission, or talk on the phone without him supervising. He controlled when they ate, how they spoke, even the lights were on or off. He took Erik out of school, cut Erik’s mother off from her family in Munich. He was… very interested in Erik’s gift, but more than that, he was very interested in having power and control. Erik and his mother were trapped in that house for over a year before anyone noticed anything odd was going on and phoned the police.”

Alex eyes him warily, and Charles can tell he doesn’t like where this is going.

“They arrested him?” he asks, but he doesn’t truly believe that’s the end of it.

“No,” Charles says. His voice is flat like he doesn't even pain him to recount this. Thank God David is asleep. “He ran. He killed Erik’s mother in cold blood in front of her son and then he ran off into the night.”

“Oh,” Alex says in a small voice, and he tries valiantly not to think about how that would feel. “Did they… did they find him?”

“Not the police, no. They thought Erik must have done it. Foolish, but there you are. They questioned him and when he became…” Charles swallows hard, forces himself to keep going. “He was understandably upset and he lashed out in self-defense. And that earned him almost two years in a juvenile detention facility.”

Alex sucks in a breath and thinks, _solitary confinement_.

“No one was seriously hurt,” Charles says slowly, deliberately. “He was just a child, scared and in pain and barely in control of himself after the death of a parent. It was not his fault what happened.” _It was not your fault what happened_ , he thinks but doesn’t dare project. If he draws these parallels too closely, Alex will bolt, he can feel it. But Alex has to know that the accident after his father’s death – the one that injured four passersby and put Alex away for three years – it was _not_ his fault.

Alex swallows, clenches his fists, and Charles can feel him push down the anger at himself – for the accident and for Hank McCoy and for every other perceived failure. Charles could tell him repression will only hurt him in the end, but that’s something he’s got to figure out for himself. All Charles can do is be there for him.

“So, what-” Alex cuts himself off, clears his throat and tries again. “What happened to him?”

“He met me,” Charles says simply. “Not right away, of course. He spent a bit of time in a group home immediately after juvie, but he ran off fairly quickly. He was after revenge, you see, against the man who’d killed his mother. And then one day when he was nineteen and I was at the ends of seventeen, he nearly drowned in a Miami harbor. I felt his agony and I knew I had to have him.”

“Right,” Alex sneers, because it’s easier to focus on this than on himself. “Love at first sight. I’ll bet.”

“Oh, nothing so trite as that,” Charles assures him, laughing a bit at the thought. “It wasn’t love yet. It was mere attraction and longing. I wanted him, and I was very spoiled – I’d never been denied a thing I wanted up to that point in my life.

“He was a man on a mission: so determined and yet so wild underneath. I know what they say about wild things and setting them free, but I was determined to tame him. I used my power to help him find the man, and then Erik was able to extract his revenge at last.”

Alex’s eyes widen slightly at the implications there. Clever boy. But Charles doesn’t want to talk about what they did that night. It’s bad enough that David will someday stumble upon the information in their minds; Charles doesn’t need every child in his care learning the cold, hard truth of murder. 

“It didn’t make him happy,” Charles goes on, before Alex can ask. “But he was calmer after. And here’s the important bit. Everything else is a background reading, but this is what I want you to understand: I thought I could be the thing that fixed Erik. I thought that by being with him and by loving him I could help him to move past the terrible things that had happened to him and the anger it caused. And for a while – years, even, when we were together – he _was_ calm and he _was_ happy. But that anger inside of him was not gone. And once something triggered that anger, I could do nothing to fix it.”

“So that’s just it?” Alex asks, clearly at a loss. “You just… can’t fucking do anything to help him?”

“That is not what I said. I said I couldn’t _fix_ the problem. And he can’t fix the problems within me. Love fixes _nothing_ , Alex. But before you go off thinking it’s pointless again, consider this: love isn’t the _method_ for redemption; it’s the _reason_.”

“I… I don’t get,” Alex says, and Charles knows what it costs him to admit that.

“What reason would either Erik or I have to fix ourselves if we hadn’t the incentive of getting back together? And that’s the real reason, I think, for why we love: it forces us shape ourselves into people we can live with, people who _can_ be loved. And if you do it correctly, it can give you the strength to follow through. Love makes you better, stronger... And for all its heartbreak, it does feel damned good, doesn’t it?”

He can feel Alex thinking this all over, even as he fixes his eyes firmly on the laptop screen. A minute passes in silence, then two. 

Finally, Alex says, “What if I can’t do it?”

“Do what?” Charles asks.

Alex suddenly looks up and meet’s Charles’s gaze once more. His eyes are frightened and yet resigned. “What if I can’t support him? What if I can’t be what he needs to make himself better?”

“Well,” Charles says, “You’ll never know if you don’t try, will you? And you’ll never _try_ unless you speak to him. You told me at least two weeks ago that you were going to speak to him. Have you done it yet?”

Alex says nothing.

“Speak to him, Alex,” Charles says. “You won’t regret it. No matter how it ends up, it’s always better to make the decision and have done with it. It’s the waiting that does you in.”

And probably, Charles thinks, he should take his bloody advice and tell Erik where he is already. What difference will those few weeks until Erik figures it out on his own really make, in the end? What he should do is just pick up the phone and have done with it.

He should. But he doesn’t. No one’s ever said he isn’t a hypocrite.

XXXXX

For the purposes of spending quality time together, Charles invites Hank along on David’s six month wellness visit. Hank, who can’t resist the lure of seeing medical equipment in action, agrees at once and off they go.

“It’s been a while since we talked,” Charles comments once they’re in the car. “How’s the senior project coming along?”

As far as opening gambits go, this one is entirely successful. Hank talks his ear off about brain waves and electrical impulses and where the two intersect. Charles nods along, reasonably familiar with both subjects thanks to his studies and Erik’s gifts. By the time they arrive at the pediatrician Charles has chosen two towns over, Hank is outlining his theories on application – not just in increasing the range of a telepath, but increasing also the perceptive ability of a baseline human. It’s all theoretical, of course, but it is very fascinating, and Charles feels bad for cutting Hank off when arrive at the facility. He would have driven around a bit to let him keep talking (he doubts Hank would have noticed with his mind so otherwise preoccupied), but they have an appointment to keep, and David’s already about two weeks behind on these shots as it is.

“It’s very unusual, seeing him in the carseat,” Hank comments when Charles unhooks the seat from the base. It’s heavy and he hates to drag around, but David is still asleep and Charles isn’t going to tempt the fates by risking his ire so near the time he’s due an injection.

“Ah, yes,” Charles agrees. “Well, there’s no point in driving when we’re only going two streets over, is there? My commute these days is very minute. And I’ll admit, I much prefer to keep him the sling. It strengthens the parent/child bond, you know. And studies have also shown that infants who are worn develop social skills earlier; it's easier for them to pick up on facial expressions and languages. Not to mention, it's so very convenient to have both hands free.”

Hank nods along at each point, fascinated. “I suppose the natural rhythms of your heartbeat and other movements are very soothing for an infant.”

“There is that,” Charles agrees, adds, “Oh, thank you,” as Hank holds the door for him.

There are two people in line ahead of them to check in and Charles uses the opportunity to set David down. He sighs in relief as he does it. “You’ve gotten fat,” he chides David, though of course he hasn’t. As a matter of fact, David is thinner than he was a month ago thanks to his last growth spurt. He is very heavy, though, and Charles is going to have to figure something else out once his own balance starts to go wrong as his pregnancy progresses.

The line moves up and the person in front of them is prompted for his insurance card, which makes Charles remember suddenly that he ought to have that at the ready. Damn baby brain. He doesn’t even know which pocket of the diaper bag his wallet is even in. Damn.

He rifles about in the front pocket, then the middle, and just as his right hand closes around the leather, his left suddenly alights on something hot. He jerks both hands back out of the bag and stares, because the warmth hasn’t receded. It’s coming, he realizes suddenly, from his wedding ring. What on earth?

“Name?” the nurse asks.

Hank says, “Uh. David Xavier?”

Charles jerks upright, ring forgotten, just as the nurse shakes her. “I don’t have an appointment under that name.”

“Oh,” Charles says, laughing a bit, “Sorry about that. It’s Lehnsherr.” He spells it out for her.

“Bingo,” the nurse says and smiles at them. “If you could just fill these out, the doctor will call you back in just a few minutes.”

The stack of papers she hands him is intimidatingly thick. Charles sighs.

He and Hank grab a pair of empty seats off to the side and Charles starts to work through the forms. He becomes very quickly aware, however, that Hank is giving him a curious look. He can feel the question without it even being asked, and it’s not a great intuitive leap, anyway.

“I have no great attachment to my surname,” he explains, not bothering to look up. “I enjoy it; it is mine, after all. But it belonged to my father and I barely knew him. And my husband’s father was a very kind man, I’m told. It would seem a shame not to pass on that legacy to our children.”

He feels Hank shift beside him. After a moment, he says, “Alex really misses his father. He doesn’t say it, but I know he does.” He’s probably all too aware how telling this conversational shift is, and Charles is glad they’re still comfortable enough around one another to speak so openly.

“I’ve felt it,” Charles tells him, and now he does look up. Paperwork can wait. This is important. “Losing a parent is never easy, especially for one so young. And I think he wouldn’t be opposed to honoring the man in such a way, if the opportunity should ever arise. But it need not be a surname. Christopher is a lovely name. And so is Henry.”

Hank blushes and looks away, laughing slightly. “It’s not,” he says. “It’s really not.”

“And what does Alex say on the matter?”

“We’ve, uh, never really expounded upon the subject,” Hank says uncomfortably.

Well of course they wouldn’t have. This conversation is skipping several crucial steps in their hypothetical relationship, and probably several years, as well. Plus it would be very difficult to talk about this when Alex and Hank are barely speaking at all.

“I notice the two of you have been avoiding one another,” Charles says bluntly.

Hank sighs. “It’s difficult,” he says. “ _He’s_ difficult.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles agrees. “He certainly is that. But I’ve said it before: he’s a fine man. And he’s very fond of you, I can tell you that.”

“His behavior says otherwise,” Hank says, and it would sound almost detached if not for the wobble of his lower lip.

“Oh, darling,” Charles says, and takes his hand. “He’s protecting himself. Surely you can see that?”

He wishes he had something, anything, to say to fix this. But if he intervenes too heavily, he knows, it won’t fix anything. They can’t come to rely on someone else to facilitate their communication – it would be the end of their relationship before they even got started.

“Perhaps,” he says at length, thinking this calls for a new tactic, “you should just work on repairing your friendship. You had something good together, didn’t you, before all this love business got in the way?”

Hank considers, then nods slowly. “A return to basics,” he says. “That may have some effect. But I can’t just stop feeling what I do for him, Professor.”

“No one’s asking you to. I’m not saying to give up entirely on romance or the prospect of a relationship with him. But perhaps if you simply go back to being friends – make up from this fight the way friends would – you’ll have more of an opportunity to communicate. One step at a time, right?”

“The idea has some merit,” Hank agrees. He sniffs. “I do miss him.”

“He’s not gone anywhere,” Charles reminds him. “He’s right where you left him. Any changes he’s making in himself haven’t taken him away.”

“David?” a voice calls.

Hank grabs the carseat and stands.

Charles sighs and looks down at his paperwork. Well. He’s sure it wasn’t that important to have it all filled out, anyway.

XXXXX

Erik calls that night and the next. He asks every time if David is well, if he’s getting enough to eat, whether he’s learned anything new. He doesn’t seem to want to talk much about himself – nothing new there – but he does listen as Charles talks about Petra’s ever-growing rock collection, and the scavenger hunt they set up for the little ones (and the more advanced scavenger hunt they set up for the teenagers), and about David’s sore gums.

Erik doesn’t bring up the possibility of sex again, and Charles doesn’t either for fear he’s imagined the whole thing. It’s a damn shame, too, because Erik’s voice is definitely doing things to Charles that necessitates hands-on remediation. He takes to having a quick and dirty wank after each call, but while that’s very nice, it doesn’t quite hit the spot. He wishes desperately he’d thought to bring a few of their sex toys with him when he went away, but sex hadn’t been on his mind at the time.

He could order something online, of course, but he doesn’t think he could look Logan in the eye after getting that package in the mail. He’s not bashful or ashamed of his sexuality, but there are certain things a landlord just should not know about his tenant. And besides, Charles is rather choosey about what he puts inside his body. He wants to be able to pick something out in person.

And that’s how he comes upon the idea.

XXXXX

“Professor, where did you get this van?”

Charles allows himself a mysterious smile. “Never you mind,” he tells Alex. “We have it now, and that’s the important thing.”

He turns to Kat, who’s standing, shivering, outside the youth center’s main door. The little ones are loitering around her, shooting envious looks at the spot where the older children have gathered in preparation for their first ever group field trip.

“Oh, cheer up,” Charles says to the lot of them. He pokes idly at Jubilee’s pouting frown. “You lot will have your turn next week.” Not to the same destination, of course. Charles is liberal but he's not _that_ liberal; he still thinks this particular area of study should be largely academic until at least puberty.

To Kat, he says, “Are you sure you’re fine to mind them?”

Ordinarily that responsibility would fall to Alex, but Charles wants Alex along on this trip and Kat had offered, so here they are.

“We’ll be fine,” she says. “We’ll probably break out the board games as soon as you’re gone. It’s been a while since I’ve played Candy Land. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I appreciate this,” Charles tells her. “We’ll be back by six. Seven at the latest.”

“Take your time,” Kat says. She reaches a hand out to stroke through Suzanne’s dark hair. Suzanne all but purrs.

“Thank you,” Charles tells her earnestly.

“No, really,” Alex interrupts. “Where the eff did you get this van? Did you steal it?”

“The license plate is new,” Hank observes. “Probably not stolen.”

“Got nice rims,” Sean opines.

Charles sighs. “Just get in the van,” he tells them.

They pile in, all five of them. Angel and Sean nearly come to blows over who managed to call shotgun first, but Angel pulls her trump card by claiming car sickness. Sean sulks, but climbs into the very back row to sprawl out beside Darwin. David, of course, is in the middle row behind the passenger seat, so that leaves the Alex and Hank to sit side by side next to him. It’s not a bad arrangement, and Charles hopes that forced proximity will go a ways toward fixing their communication problems.

“So where are we going?” Angel asks over the general squabble once they’re on open highway. “You’re not taking us to some stupid career fair, are you?”

A career fair. Oh that would be such fun! He’ll have to look about to see if there’s anything local.

“Of course not,” he tells her. “I would have had you lot dress up for that sort of thing. And put resumes together. You can’t just walk into a career fair empty-handed, you know.”

“Well, where then?”

Charles only smiles. “You’ll find out,” he says, sing-song.

They try in vain to guess their destination for the next twenty minutes, with Sean shouting out suggestions from the back (and taking gentle razzing from Darwin for the more ridiculous ones), and Hank trying to use logical deduction based on what he’d seen of the search history on the center’s laptop while trying to show Alex yet again how to use price comparison websites.

Their guesses don’t even come close, and Charles has a moment of glee at their appalled confusion when he takes a parking spot in front of _this_ particular shop. Even the unflappable Darwin is uncomfortable with this situation. 

“This is a sex store,” Alex says, voice and thoughts horrified. He’s not opposed to sex, Charles knows that, but he doesn’t especially want to talk about it here – not with Charles and _certainly_ not with Hank.

“We’re not going in there, right?” Angel asks, horribly aware of being the only girl in the company.

Sean has burst into nervous giggles, and Hank’s blush is becoming unmanageable.

Charles ignores all of this. “Yes,” he tells Angel. “We are going in there. But first, I want a word.”

He half-turns in his seat so he can see their anxious, uncomfortable expressions.

“No need to be nervous,” he tells them. “Sex is a perfectly natural part of life, and it’s something we all have to deal with sooner or later. Now, I don’t want to pressure anyone, and if you think you’re really not ready for this step in your sexual education, of course I won’t force you to go inside. But if you’re only embarrassed, I suggest you work past that now. There’s no reason at all to be embarrassed about sex. Nearly everyone does it, and even those who don’t are confronted with it on a daily basis. Sex is a fact of life.”

He can feel the mortification rising up from their collective minds. Darwin thinks idly that he’d really prefer it if the Professor stopped saying the word sex. 

“So,” he goes on. “First thing’s first. Does anyone feel they’re not ready for this?”

No one wants to be the first to say something, but Charles’s gift comes in handy once again, and he knows none of them feel unready. They’re nervous, certainly, but excited, too.

“Excellent,” he says. “Just a few more things, then. The first is that while we’re here, I want you all to think long and hard-”

Sean bursts into laughter, and Charles checks himself. God, what had he been thinking with that choice of words? And he can’t take it back now. He forces himself not to smile.

“ _Long and hard_ ,” he continues with deliberate emphasis, “about the importance of safe sex.”

Alex groans and hides his face in his hands. Hank glances nervously at him, then away quickly.

“I think most of you are probably aware that I’m five months pregnant,” Charles goes on. Darwin blinks in surprise. Sean can’t stop laughing. No one seems overly concerned. Good. 

“You’re all also aware that I have a seven month old child. I want you to do that math in your head and think very hard about the crying of an irritable baby. Now double that sound. Every time you think about engaging in unprotected sex, I want you to remember that sound. And for those of you who plan to engage strictly in homosexual activities, you should know I’ve touched the mind of a patient with chlamydia and it burns like you wouldn’t believe. Got it?”

A few of them nod slowly, which is probably the best he’s going to get. Angel says nothing, but he hadn’t expect her to. They’ll talk later.

He allows himself a smile. 

“All that said, I don’t want you to think sex is all doom and gloom. If done properly, it can be marvelous fun. I would, of course, recommend practicing on your own first before you attempt it with a partner, but the choice there is entirely yours. And to help you make that choice, I want you all to take your time inside and pick a toy. I don’t care what you pick, but I’d like you all to pick _something_. Anyone have any questions?”

In a small voice, Hank says, “Professor, we’re not all over eighteen. They’re going to ask for our identification when we try to go inside.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Charles says easily. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeves.”

Sure enough, once they pile out of the van and into the store, the clerk barely even looks up at them. No one says anything about David, either. There aren’t any other customers at this time of day, which is all the better.

“Right then,” Charles says, grabbing up a basket. “I’ll be wandering around, if anyone has any questions or would like advice. Once you pick out your purchase, come slip it into my basket. I’ll check out at the end and no one else will have to know what you’ve chosen. Well, except for me, but I’d like you remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that I am a telepath and would have known regardless.”

They laugh nervously and start to edge away from one another. Charles has some ideas about what he wants for himself, but first he makes his way over to the section with the condoms. He grabs a few varied boxes, figuring he can slip a variety in each of the children’s bags and then have some to spare at the youth center. He grabs a handful of lubricants, as well, including a few flavored ones on a whim.

That should do it, he figures, and heads back toward the vibrators, where Hank and Angel are each trying desperately to pretend the other isn’t there. Charles grins at the sight, but says nothing, not yet. He eyes the selection, searching for something suitable. Most of the vibrators are, unfortunately, meant for women, but there a few versatile models and he focuses on these. As he picks up one that’s slightly larger than average (because Erik _is_ ), he becomes aware the Hank and Angel are both watching him.

“The vibration button was the best thing to ever happen to my solo sex life,” he tells them conversationally. “But of course, if I were just starting out, I’d probably lean toward something rather thin.”

Hank takes the hint and shyly shifts his attention to the slim vibrators on the opposite wall.

To Angel, Charles adds, “I’ve heard very good things about the rabbit style. Clitoral stimulation should not be overlooked, I’m told.”

For himself, he decides upon a thick ridged model with a curved tip. His color options are purple and orange. He picks purple, and if that’s in part because it reminds him of Erik, well… no one ever said he couldn’t be sentimental about his own damn husband.

Charles makes the rounds after that, checking in with each of the children to see if they need any assistance. No one takes him up on that, but he does offer some unsolicited advice. Sean is the first one to come back with his choice: a truly beautiful silk blindfold and a set of matching handcuffs. As their hands brush in the act of the transfer, Charles gets a flash of a beautiful brunette teacher in silky lingerie. He quickly blinks the image away, because he’s said it before: there are things a man just does not need to know about the person who is essentially his landlord (though her concern with mutant teenagers is becoming very clear now).

Darwin comes back after that with a pocket rocket and the look of a man who knows exactly what girls want. Charles can’t say he’s surprised; Darwin is a very good looking young man with a lot of confidence, after all. It does seem, however, as though Hank and Alex really are the only two virgins in the company. It doesn’t really matter – virginity is a ridiculous social construct that serves no purpose but to perpetuate oppression and shame. But it does make Charles want to keep an eye on the both of them, make sure they don’t make any foolish mistakes in their inexperience.

Angel is unashamed in her choice. She keeps her head held high and meets his eyes as she slips the vibrator into the basket. She’s chosen a rabbit toy, after all, and Charles will have to solicit a review from her once she’s had a chance to try it out; he wants to know for future reference if the style is worthwhile. There may come a day, after all, when he’ll be guiding Jean and Jubilee through this very situation, and the more information he has, the better.

Hank picks a slim model vibrator, one with a curved tip that Charles approves of. Hank, he senses without really wanting to, has never attempted anal masturbation before, but he’s willing to experiment – for science if nothing else.

Alex, Charles notes, spends a bit of time browsing the masturbation sleeves then darts into the vibrator aisle the moment Hank and Angel have vacated that section of the store. He’s the last to bring his toy forward and he’s the most ashamed about it. Charles doesn’t know why that should be the case (he’s not the one engaging in sexual relations with Moira MacTaggert, after all, nor is he the one expecting an accidental baby). But he is the only one who receives regular harassment about his sexuality, and that's probably got something to do with it.

The toy he’s chosen is a vibrating plug, the kind that can be worn discretely throughout the day. It’s not a small toy, and Charles desperately hopes that he’ll work up to this – preferably with the slim vibrator Hank’s chosen. As with happened with Sean, Charles accidentally gets a flash of memory from Alex when their hands touch. This time, the memory is of Alex flat on his back in his room, legs spread and pulled up as he puts a finger inside himself, thinking desperately the entire time about how it would feel to have Hank’s long fingers there instead. Charles swallows and blinks quickly. That is certainly something he could have gone without seeing, thank you very much.

The children hover near the door while Charles checks out, and he senses that they’re nervous once more at having to face one another after this little adventure. David, who’s managed to fall asleep and then wake up again in the time they’ve been shopping, picks up on the tension and compensates by babbling loudly. Once upon a time, Charles would have attempted to shield him from this, but he suppresses that urge and he’s glad for it when David does nothing more than babble and frown. He’s learning, and that’s good, so very good.

In the van once more, the children eventually loosen up enough to start talking to one another. Alex and Hank are very careful not to let their arms brush. Hank feels nervous and skittish. Alex is still vaguely ashamed and he wants to direct the attention anywhere but on himself.

“So, Prof,” he says, and his voice is drawling. “We all want to know: do you top or bottom?”

Charles would think that’s rather obvious, considering his current condition, and he can tell Hank’s thinking the same. Still, he decides to play along.

“Ah,” he says. “Thank you for asking, Alex. That’s a point I’d forgotten to bring up earlier.”

He feels Alex’s flash of annoyance that he’s failed to fluster Charles.

“The truth of the matter is, I’ve been both on top of and underneath my partner at various points in my sexual encounters. I’ve also been known to enjoy sex standing up or lying side by side. But oh! You were asking about penetration. Terribly sorry, I misunderstood!”

Alex grumbles but Charles pretends not to hear.

“In that case, when my partner and I have penetrative sex - and that's not every time, mind you; plenty of couples both heterosexual and homosexual enjoy non-penetrative sex, as well – but when we do, I really prefer to be penetrated. We have switched it up (and I would encourage you all to experiment similarly), but I find I rather prefer to be, as you put it Alex, the _bottom_ \- though of course I am sometimes positioned physically above my partner even as he penetrates me. As a matter of fact, the night I conceived David was in that position, unlikely as that seems. The reverse cowgirl, I believe it's called.”

“Oh my God,” Angel says, burying her face in her hands. “Stop!”

“Any other questions?” Charles asks cheerily.

There are none.


	19. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets three chapters in a row this time. For reasons.

On Friday morning, Alex looks up and says, “So what are we doing about Halloween, man?”

Charles blinks.

“Halloween?” he repeats blankly. He’s not unaware of the holiday’s existence, but he doesn’t see why he need do anything about it. Probably wearing a Virgin Mary costume two years in a row would be overkill, but he hasn’t any other opinions on the subject. “Why, are you having a party?”

Probably it wouldn’t be a very good party, considering all of Alex’s acquaintances are children. It would have to be completely dry. Probably they’d have soda and candy. God, it would be candy madness.

Alex just stares at him, eyebrows raised.

“Oh my God,” he says realizing suddenly. “The children are expecting a party!”

“Yeah,” Alex says slowly, like _duh_.

And of course. Of course they are! Damn this baby brain! The children have been telling him about their costumes all week and he’s been nodding along and telling them how wonderful they’ll look and asking if they need any help putting them together, and never once has he considered that they might be wanting to show off their costumes to him! And that would all be fine, except…

“I don’t know what children do at Halloween,” he admits. Do they… bob for apples, perhaps? Is that a real thing? He thinks it might be a myth: one of those quintessential American activities that nobody does anymore, much like attending sock hops or drinking chocolate malts. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually been to a child’s Halloween party; his childhood parties had been the sort of adult gatherings where your parents took you and let you run about someone else’s estate while they got progressively drunker (and thank God he’d been able to shield his mind by then, because the physical noise alone had been unbearable).

“Oh dear,” he says, mind whirling. “We’re going to need… decorations, probably. Games, crafts, snacks.”

Alex chokes at this. “ _You’re_ going to make snacks?” he asks, frowning uncertainly.

Fair point. “No,” Charles says. “Not me. _You_.”

Alex, of course, balks at that. “You told me I wouldn’t have to cook anymore if I took this job,” he accuses.

“I don’t recall having said anything of the sort,” Charles muses. “Look, it’s either you or me, Alex, and you don’t know what I’m capable of when confronted with a hot stove. Do you really want to face the odds there? I might burn the place down, and then you really will have to go back to food service.”

Alex huffs and crosses his arms across his chest. “Maybe I’ll take my chances.”

They glare one another across the coffee table for a long minute. Then Charles says, “Fine. I’ll just go to your mother, then.”

Alex’s jaw drops. “Dude,” he says, waves of indignation rolling off him. “You’re going to tattle? Not cool.”

Charles pulls himself to his feet, nose in the air. He has a woman to see. (And alright, maybe the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that he first has to zip himself into his babywearing jacket, then scoop up David from his seat on the sofa and slip him into the front pouch – his dramatic exits were _much_ more evocative before parenthood).

There’s a line at the checkout counter when Charles gets into the diner, and no one there to ring the customers out. He can hear Kat in the back relaying food orders to the young cook she’s hired to replace Alex. The older waitress, Maddie, is nowhere to be found. Charles pops David into one of highchairs, shrugs out of his coat, and calls into the back that he’s getting the register. Then he does just that.

He’s gotten the line of customers more or less taken care of by the time Kat pops back out of the kitchen with a tray full of drinks. She smiles warmly at him, runs quick fingers through David’s curls, then runs off to the big table in the back to finish taking their orders. Charles smiles back and rings up the last family. 

He’s refilling the change slots by the time Kat comes back. She gives him a _hold on a moment_ gesture and ducks back into the kitchen. Charles smiles fondly and keeps counting pennies.

“Busy morning?” he asks when she reappears at last.

“You know how it is,” she says, leaning against the counter and grabbing her water bottle from underneath it. “Working hard or hardly working, right?”

Charles nods, thinking about the way the children at the youth center all seem to be perfectly content until the first one starts whining, then they all decide at once that they must have his attention right then or they’ll surely die. And of course their irritation riles David up and David riles his sister up and it all inevitably ends with Charles aching inside and out. But it’s the good kind of ache, the kind that comes from being loved too much. And even when it’s the other kind of ache – the bad kind – he still manages to resist resorting to shields.

“Anyway,” Kat says, nudging him companionably with her shoulder, “what can I do for you? Don’t tell me you’ve gotten enough of Alex already: it’s only been a few weeks!”

“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Charles laughs. “He’s absolutely wonderful help.”

Kat raises an eyebrow in a way that Charles knows intimately from seeing Alex do it so often; it’s an expression that translates roughly to, _I don’t believe you but okay._

Charles laughs again. “Well, he’s certainly got a mouth on him,” he concedes. “But I honestly wouldn’t be able to run the place without him, Kat. He’s a fine young man.”

Kat snorts. _Young man_ , she thinks derisively. _You’re what, twenty-four?_

 _A bit older than that_ , Charles thinks but doesn’t project. He’s actually not entirely sure Kat knows he’s a telepath. It hasn’t come up between them and he hasn’t heard any thoughts of that nature from her direction. Though how or why the boys are keeping that a secret from her, he’s not sure. He’s not even entirely sure why he himself is keeping it a secret at this point except that he’s left it go on so long that it would be awkward to tell her now. But sooner or later she’s going to notice that his weight gain is rather pointed and then there are going to be questions aplenty.

But he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

“Fine, then,” Kat says. “If it’s not Alex, then what’s up?”

“Ah,” Charles says uncomfortably. “It’s been, er, brought to my attention that the children are probably expecting a party for the upcoming holiday. Crafts, decorations, that sort of thing. Snacks.”

“You only like me for my food,” Kat accuses, but she’s grinning.

“And your skills with children,” Charles adds quickly. “I was hoping you’d have time to come visit the center and lead the children in a spooky cooking class?”

“Spooky, huh?” Kat’s still smiling. “I can probably manage that. Bats and rats, right?”

“Oh, I have no idea,” Charles says at once. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever decorated for Halloween before. Or Thanksgiving. Or Christmas.”

“Oh, Christmas! That’s a travesty, Charles. I didn’t picture you as a Scrooge.”

Charles shrugs helplessly. “It’s never really been a priority. Birthdays, certainly. New Years’, of course. But Christmas – well, my sister and I always preferred to call ourselves lonely gentiles and congregate in Chinatown. Then I married a Jewish man, and it was inevitable, really. He can be… very stubborn about certain traditions.”

Not _all_ traditions, of course, but some. And God forbid Charles try to break one that Erik’s insistent on keeping. They’d had sex twice last Yom Kippur but if Charles even _thinks_ about ordering a pulled pork sandwich at a restaurant then he’s on the couch all night. Erik can never, ever find out how much bacon Charles has consumed since they’ve been apart.

Kat’s smiles softens into something much more understanding and kind. “I get it. It wasn’t easy for me after my Christopher died. But he’d always loved the holidays and I thought it would be a shame for the boys to miss out on that part of their father. If I’d been on my own I probably would have just fried some eggs for supper and called it a night.”

“It’s different with children,” Charles agrees. “When these two get a bit older I’m probably really going to have to start putting a bit of effort into these things.” He rubs his middle instinctively and is pleased when his darling Häschen flutters about, presumably in response. His fingers start to feel oddly warm and he jerks his hand away, staring at it. What on earth is going on with his wedding band? He would think it’s Erik teasing, but he would surely feel Erik’s mind before Erik got close enough to have this sort of impact.

“Wait,” Kat says slowly, looking him up and down as though in a new light. “Wait, are you…” She trails off, obviously not sure how to go on, but she’s watching carefully now: watching and waiting.

“Oh God,” Charles says, burying his face in his hand for a moment. Hadn’t he _just_ decided he wasn’t going to tell her? How many times can be blame this sort of thing on baby brain before he has to admit the he’s simply been sucked in by the center of gravity of the absentminded professor stereotype?

 _Don’t be alarmed_ , he tells her mentally. _You must have known I wasn’t altruistically interested in gifted children. I’ve got one of my own. And one on the way_ , he adds as an afterthought.

Kat is, simply put, shocked. Her mouth is hanging open slightly and her eyes are huge. She looks at his face then down to his belly and then up to his face again, all in quick succession.

“How did you…,” she starts uncertainly. “You’re not-”

“Expecting?” Charles fills in. This is the sort of reaction he’s been expecting, really; the children were all a bit of a disappointment in how easily they’d taken the news. “I am, yes. It’s a secondary mutation, after telepathy. There was no surrogate mother for David; it was an accidental conception pure and simple.”

Kat says, “Well, fuck!” and Charles startles into a laugh. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her swear before. It’s delightful.

“I just… I didn’t know that was an option,” she says, still looking rather dazed. “It’s not… common, is it?”

And she’s thinking of Alex, of course, and his proclivities. She doesn’t quite know whether she should hope for that possibility or dread it; she would very much love to be a grandmother, but Alex definitely isn’t ready for that now. An accidental pregnancy on his part could be disastrous.

“Oh, it’s quite rare,” Charles assures her, and she sighs in relief (and yes, alright, some disappointment). “And besides, if anyone in the world could develop a gene therapy to render the mutation inactive, it would definitely be Hank McCoy.” Once he’s trained up a bit in the field, he’ll probably be all over that sort of project. A few years yet and he’ll be unstoppable. 

Kat huffs a laugh and shakes her head, presumably to clear away any lingering thoughts about her son and Hank McCoy and what they may or may not get up to together. Her eyes land back on Charles, and he recognizes that look.

“You can touch her,” Charles tells her.

Kat extends a hand slowly and starts to rub tiny careful circles across his belly. He would feel self-conscious about this sort of thing, but he does love the feel of Kat’s cool, efficient hands. 

They stand together a moment, her hands on him, until a bell goes off in the kitchen.

“Crap, I have to get that,” she says. “The people in the back probably need refills, anyway. But hey, when do you want me to come over for snack time?” _Little girl_ , her mind is still saying on repeat. _Tiny, impossible little baby girl_.

“Are you free this evening?” Charles asks.

She agrees that she is and they arrange for her to send over a list of ingredients that they’ll need for spooky edible bats and rats. Charles thanks her profusely and lets her get on with her day.

He decides as he’s walking back to the center that he’s going to send Hank and Alex out on a shopping run by themselves after school, see if he can snap them out of their disagreement and back into being friends. As he’d told Hank, one step at a time.

XXXXX

When Erik calls that night, Charles is ready for him.

“How is David?” Erik asks by way of conversation starter. “Is he teething yet? What have you been feeding him?”

Charles says, “Fine, barely, and mashed vegetables and breast milk.” He props the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he has both hands free to wriggle out of his pants.

“Is he asleep?” Erik asks. He usually tries to call early enough to be able to speak to him, but Charles and David had had some serious playtime (physical and psionic) while Kat Summers was showing the children how to bake, and David had been tired enough to go down early. All according to plan. 

“He is, yes,” Charles tells him. He pulls the phone away from his ear long enough to get his shirt off over his head.

“-at the youth center?” Erik is asking when Charles brings the phone back.

“There’s a Halloween party tomorrow night,” Charles replies absently, opening the bedside drawer with one hand and bringing out the vibrator and a bottle of lubricant he’d taken from the stash at the center.

Erik makes a noise of vague interest. “Suppose you’ll be going as something more fashionable than Mariam of Nazareth now you’ve got your figure back.”

Charles can’t suppress the giggle that escapes him at that. If only Erik knew what condition his figure is currently in… and he should really feel bad that Erik _doesn’t_ know. He’s certain the guilt will catch up with him later. As it stands, he’s far too keyed up right now to even worry about it. And Erik’s voice, God, it’s going straight to his cock.

“David and I are going to be kangaroo and joey,” Charles says, popping the seal on the lube. He’d come upon the idea online and ran with it because it’s short notice and they’ve already got the sling. And besides, even Charles is handy enough to glue a felt kangaroo face and ears on two brown woolen caps. And if David has to be worn more to toward the hip than a real kangaroo might carry her babe, probably none of the children will notice.

Charles hears the hiss of breath that means Erik wants to laugh. “Take a picture,” he orders. “Don’t forget.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Charles says quickly. He maneuvers a pillow under his lower back so he’s at a bit of an angle and then slicks the fingers of his right hand. This is going to be _unbelievably good_.

The first touch to his hole makes him whimper – he can’t help it; it’s been so long.

“Charles?” Erik asks quickly, voice sharp. “What was that?”

“God,” Charles breathes, rubbing two fingers slowly around his rim. There are shivers in the pit of his stomach. His toes are going to start curling any second now. He’s always loved the tease.

“Charles!” Erik barks, and Charles startles, pushing one finger inside to the first knuckle almost accidentally.

“Oh,” he says breathily.

“Are you… are you touching yourself?” Erik asks incredulously, and he must be thinking, _surely not_. Charles wishes he could touch that mind while he gets himself off. The voice is nice… the mind would be better.

“Mmm, yes,” Charles tells him. “Where are you? You’re not driving?”

“No,” Erik says tightly.

“You’re not mad, are you darling?” Charles asks. Not that he could stop himself now even if Erik were mad. He pushes his finger as deep as he can, nearly to the last knuckle. It feels like very much but he knows it’s not. This is _nothing_ and he wants more. He tells himself firmly not to rush; the longer it takes, the better it will be, he knows that. But God, it’s been months!

“Mad?” Erik repeats, voice still clipped. “Depends. Were you going to say something or just get yourself off while I talked you through it unknowingly?”

There’s a rustle from Erik’s end and Charles grins.

“Are you taking off your pants?” he asks.

Erik says nothing.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Charles says. He draws his finger back out and groans, reveling in the way the rim clings to it. More lubricant, then he’s pushing two back inside, and oh yes, that’s what he wanted. Not _all_ that he wants, but he can’t take something as big as this toy without working for it, not after having gone so long unused.

Erik sighs shakily and Charles closes his eyes, lets himself pretend they’re together.

“If I were there,” he says, spreading apart his fingers inside himself. Too far, too quickly - the stretch burns and he hisses in pain-pleasure. How has he gone so long without having had anything inside him like this? How has it been so long since he’s been fucked open? They were days when they were younger he couldn’t go twelve hours without being fucked. God, he misses that.

“If I were there,” he tries again, “what would you want from me?”

“Suck me off,” Erik says at once, and oh, he’s so bossy when they do this. Charles loves it. His mouth waters at the thought. He can barely remember the taste of Erik’s skin. His lips, his neck, his cock. Salt, he thinks, and metal. Always the taste of metal, and the smell. But not the feel: he’d be soft and hard at the same time, and huge in Charles’s mouth. Charles would tease just because he could: trace his lips up one side and down the other, let his mouth touch just the head and pull back to grin up at Erik. He’d drive Erik mad like that before giving them what they both want and wrapping hand and mouth around his cock and finding a rhythm.

He tells Erik all of this and Erik’s breathing hitches again. He’s taking himself in hand, he’s got to be. Stroking himself and thinking of Charles’s mouth. But he’s quiet, he’s always so quiet and if Charles could feel his mind that would be fine, but he needs the connection now and voice is the only medium they have.

“Is that all you want?” he asks, and he probably sounds as desperate as he feels. He pushes a third finger inside himself. The blunt pressure of skin and nails makes pleasure buzz through him. His knees are weak, his toes are definitely curling. He can’t quite reach the spot he wants, but this is just the appetizer: the main course is still to come.

He holds his breath, waiting for Erik to say something, anything.

“No,” Erik says at once. A pause, another panting breath, and then he says, “I want you on your back. Legs around my waist. I want to be inside you.”

Charles groans. Yes. That’s it, that’s exactly what he wants. He yanks his hand back and he moans again at the way his body clings to his fingers, tries to keep them inside. But there’s better yet to come, and if it’s not Erik’s cock, at least it’s nearly the right size. He wants the stretch. He revels in it.

He grabs the toy, brings it down to press against his hole. He’s not quite loose enough, even with three fingers having done their work, but he pushes, bears down, and then - _yes_. He pushes the toy all the way in until its curved tip is resting just _there_. The slide is amazing, for a moment he doesn’t think he can handle how good it is. His eyes roll up in the back of his head and the sound he makes is inhuman to his own ears.

“Gott,” Erik pants, and even in his hazy state Charles can hear the slap-slap sound of Erik’s hand on his cock.

“Erik,” Charles manages between gasping breaths. It’s been so fucking long. His hand curls around the flared base and fumbles for the button. He finds it, pushes it, and the feeling knocks the breath right back out of him. He can feel it all the way up his spine, and in the pit of his stomach, and in the head of his cock. His hands are shaking, his eyes are screwed shut. He doesn’t know if he can take the pleasure.

“Charles,” Erik hisses. “Your mouth, God, your mouth. Your sounds. Keep making them. I just need-”

He groans and Charles shudders. He clenches his hand around the base again and manages something like a rhythm. Slide out and his back arches, slide in and his knees shake. 

“Erik,” he says, voice high and unsteady. “Oh. God. Yes. Erik.”

Slide out and in again and then he gives up and angles the tip just there and the vibrations shake him throughout – he’s trembling everywhere and his hips are pushing back on their own to try and get more, get a firmer touch and stronger push. And God, Erik. Oh God. 

He somehow manages to unclench the fingers of his left hand and drag them down around his belly to grasp at his cock. Every stroke feels like too much, too much, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He feels the pressure climbing in the pit of his stomach and it climbs and climbs and one more stroke of his cock, one more hard press of the toy inside him, and then he’s gone.

It’s… a little bit like jumping off a cliff. Or like someone’s cut his strings and suddenly he can’t move a muscle. His entire body has turned into a quivering, pulsating puddle of goo. There’s cum on his thighs, on his stomach, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything at all except riding out the waves of pleasure – and about listening as Erik groans out loud and comes.

Charles pants afterward, listens to Erik do the same. The toy inside him is still vibrating and it’s starting to become truly painful with the sensitivity. And the little girl inside him is extremely active all of a sudden, and that’s really something of a libido suppressant in its own right. He fumbles underneath himself with shaky hands and manages to pull the toy free. The cling of his muscles is not nearly so sexy now as it was half a minute ago. He feels fucked open, used, and if Erik were here now, that wouldn’t be so bad. Without him, it’s really sort of lonely.

“I miss you,” he says. “Where are you?”

“Colorado,” Erik says. “Aspen. You mentioned the leaves had changed where you are.”

“Clever,” Charles says, and smiles to himself. His husband is very clever. But… “I wasn’t going to pick a town with a mining history. I know that sort of thing calls to you.”

“Please,” Erik says snootily, “Silver is hardly even a metal. Why do you think your wedding band is platinum?”

Charles looks at his ring. His hands haven’t really stopped shaking yet and his entire body is still boneless. He’s going to sleep like a baby tonight. And hopefully David will, too.

“My ring has been odd lately,” Charles tells Erik, still inspecting it. “It’s been warming up.”

Erik sighs, impatient. “Are you not a scientist, Charles?” he asks pointedly. “Do you not understand the laws of thermodynamics?”

“I don’t mean warming up to body temperatures,” Charles says indignantly. “I’m aware that metal pressed against my body will warm to my temperature.”

Erik groans in satisfaction when Charles says the words ‘metal pressed against my body.’ Charles grins. _This is more like it_ , he thinks. This is the kind of argument he’s been itching to have for months: the kind that’s more foreplay than disagreement. Except in this case the foreplay seems to be occuring after the sex.

“Perhaps one your children has a related mutation,” Erik says reasonably. “What about that rock girl?”

“Petra,” Charles reminds him. “Yes, that could be the case, I suppose. Though why anyone would go after my wedding ring is a mystery to me.”

“Perhaps she has a crush,” Erik says, voice teasing.

Charles closes his eyes. It’s so very good to hear Erik sound so happy. It’s been so long. Far too long. It’s really time they put this whole thing behind them. He’s enjoying the game for now, enjoying the closeness they seem to have redeveloped while so far apart from one another, but soon the time will come for them to be together again. Charles is so happy right now. He’s relaxed in a way he hasn’t been since David’s birth. It’s still hard, caring for this child he loves so much, but doesn't seem so impossible anymore. And it will be easier still once Erik is back by his side.

“Erik,” he says slowly, carefully, “come back from Colorado. You won’t find me there. I never even left the North East.”

Erik sputters and Charles knows he needs to hang up now before he gives too much away. Erik still has to work for it, after all. He’s not going to just give in completely.

“Good night, Erik,” he says firmly over Erik’s sudden half-formed questions. “I love you. Call me tomorrow.”

Then he hangs up. He lies there for another a few minutes just breathing before he finally manages to get up and get ready for bed.

Charles’s last thought before falling asleep that night is that he’s definitely going to order that updated POS system for Logan, after all. At this point, he’s definitely earned it.


	20. Erik

Erik watches the video at least twenty times. It’s Saturday morning and his eyes are aching from interrupted sleep and his embarrassing subsequent breakdown on the phone to Charles, but even still he can’t look away from his phone screen. He watches the video as he brushes his teeth, then again as he shaves. He’d probably cut himself if he weren’t so very familiar with the metal razor blade in his hand. He watches it yet another time as he pours himself coffee. He burns his fingers on the carafe. He doesn’t care.

The video is three minutes and forty-seven second long. Every time it finishes, Erik can’t help but to reach out and push replay. Then he watches, transfixed every single time, as David laboriously rolls himself over from his back onto his stomach. All on his own. 

Erik hadn’t known he could do that. He’s on a play mat Erik doesn’t recognize – green with monkeys – and he’s wearing clothes Erik’s never seen. He’s obviously moved into a larger size of rompers. Nothing about this child is how Erik remembers it. When they meet again, will he even recognize the boy? Will David recognize him?

The thought puts a cold feeling of dread in Erik’s stomach. He’s always known David has more in him of Charles than of Erik. It’s everything about him: the gift, the demeanor, the face. He has Erik’s eyes and not much else. Even the curls Erik can’t really put claim to: his hair does curl a bit when he leaves it go too long without a cut, but nothing on this magnitude. The boy is Charles through and through. Part of Erik is so happy with that because Charles is the most wonderful person Erik’s ever known and God knows the child’s better off with taking after him than Erik. But that stop him from seething with jealousy. And it’s so much worse now. Because Erik doesn’t even know who this boy is anymore. His own son and he barely recognizes him. 

It makes want to be sick. It makes him to punch something. He does neither. He just clenches one hand around a dozen musketballs and squeezes until he can breathe again. Then he pushes replay on the video and watches once more as his boy grows up without him.

 

  


XXXXX

Raven’s list of foster homes is frustratingly long.

“This will take weeks,” Erik says, flipping through the thick stack of pages she’s handed him.

Raven snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. And that’s not even all of them.”

Erik’s hands freeze on the papers and he snaps a look at her. “How many more are there?”

“What do I look like, a psychic?” Raven asks, rolling her eyes. “If I knew how many there were, they’d already be on the list. God, Erik, there are like 13,000 foster kids in this city, alright? Even after we narrow it down to non-white females, it’s still like a fuckton. It’s going to take some time to get them all compiled.”

“The girl may not have that time to spare,” Erik reminds her coolly.

Raven’s eyes narrow. “Well, I’m working as fast as I can! It’s not my fault OCFS is the least organized department in goddamn government. And every case worker I’ve spoken to is so far over their head they can’t even see the surface. These foster kids are completely fucked.”

“I know,” Erik says shortly. “I’ve been one.”

He gives the papers a cursory shuffle, then folds them into his back pocket.

“No point in waiting,” he says. “I’ll do what I can from my end. And I suggest you get back to the office.”

Raven agrees with the words if not his tone, and they part ways.

XXXXX

Erik spends the next ten hours with his feet on the ground and his senses on alert as he takes what is essentially a very winding street-level tour of the city. He throws himself into the effort because he really needs something to focus on right now. He doesn’t want to think about his breakdown on the phone to Charles last night, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about David becoming even more estranged from Erik than he already was.

So he walks from stop to stop, reaching out and trying to feel for one little girl with an odd electromagnetic presence. If this were the countryside, Erik could feel her out anywhere within fifteen or twenty miles, he’s sure of that. But here in the city with so much interference – cell phones, televisions, the subways, the power grid – he’s going to need to be much closer. Within a block, probably. Luckily, he’s made it habit over the last few weeks to keep his senses stretched out around himself at all times.

All his effort is for naught, however. By the time the sun sets and the late October chill starts to become unbearable, Erik has found exactly nothing. He takes himself the long way home, unwilling to give up even in the semi-dark that the city allows. He passes a dozen more foster homes by the time he comes upon his own building. None of them belong to the girl, and Erik thinks this plan was doomed to fail from the start. Thirteen thousand children, Raven had said. What are the odds they’ll be able to find one little lost girl in all of that helpless mass?

It doesn’t look promising. He’s going to keep going with it anyway. He’d rather be doing something than nothing, in the end.

He wakes up Sunday morning and does the whole thing over again. Same process, different neighborhoods. It’s a slow trudge of walk, stop, cross a name off the list. Walk, stop, cross another name off the list. None of them are Erik’s little girl.

…not that she’s _his_ little girl. He doesn’t know why he’s thought it like that. He doesn’t even know her. Yes, he’s a father and she a mere child, but she’s not _his_ child. No use getting attached. He’s got enough on his plate just dealing with the emotional kickback from loving David. He certainly doesn’t need to form any more attachments, especially not to a little girl he may never find. That would just be asking for trouble.

Erik wishes he had a distraction from these thoughts. Unfortunately, this search _is_ his distraction, and from much larger problems. So instead he forces himself to concentrate more completely on the search and on extending his senses further, on blocking out more fully the background noise of cars and jewelry and buildings.

Walk, stop, cross another name off the list.

By Sunday evening he’s come to two conclusions: 1) he’s hopelessly out of shape, and 2) this is going to take months, which they just don’t have, especially if the Brotherhood is looking also.

“There must be another way,” Erik says to Azazel Monday morning. He’s currently digging in his desk drawer an unsharpened pencil that he can slide under his cast. His arm’s been itching like mad all morning, probably because of all the sweating he did over the weekend on his urban hike. He’s going to be very glad to get this damn thing off in a few days.

“Yes,” Azazel agrees. “There is. You bring back telepath husband and he finds her for us.”

Erik pauses in his fumbling long enough to snarl up at Azazel. As if it’s that easy. If finding Charles were as simple as that, Erik would have done it already. And anyway…

“You leave him out of this,” Erik says in deadliest voice. “It’s bad enough we’re putting him in danger by proximity. He doesn’t need to be any more involved than that. You’ve got Emma, don’t you?”

Azazel pulls a face. “She has been searching. But she does not have way with children...”

“But Charles does,” Erik finishes. He sighs and does the thing he should have done from the beginning: he uses the metal eraser band to call a pencil up from the very bottom of his desk drawer and into his waiting hand. 

“Well, you can’t have him,” he decides to say at last. Charles is Erik’s – if he even _is_ Erik’s any longer – and Azazel has no claim to him, not for his powers and certainly not for plotting a telepathic interference Charles is sure to protest against.

XXXXX

Erik doesn’t call Charles Monday night, mostly because he doesn’t want to come on too strong – not when Charles has only just barely agreed to rethink their future together (and perhaps part of it is embarrassment about his tears the other night, but he won’t cop to that unless severely pressed). Instead he does what he’d done all last week: paces and worries.

No matter how he tries, he can’t stop his mind from going back to David and the problem there. The problem is the same as it’s always been: how can he make David want him? How can he make himself over into the kind of man David could love? Does he truly have the makings of a good father in him? Or was that potential destroyed along with his childhood?

It’s not that he hasn’t made strides in fixing this broken thing in his chest; he has. He has a plan now for when he gets angry or frustrated, one that keeps him from lashing out – or at least, it’s kept him from lashing out _so far_ ; no guarantee for the future. When he feels himself becoming angry, he turns to the metal, pushes his anger into it and lets it take shape under his fingers. It’s not perfect (he’ll admit to have given the wall a few thumps with his cast after a nightmare Sunday night), but it’s something to hold to when he feels like he’s drowning.

Whether it’ll stand up to the stress and frustration of parenthood remains to be seen. But if it doesn’t, he always has Raven’s promise as a backup. Better to be dead than to ever lay the hand on his family in anger. Now that he knows he’s capable of that, he’ll be prepared.

But none of that fixes the dam inside of him. None of that dries up whatever is being held back by that dam – be it anger or something worse. And though it seems like the dam might be draining drop by drop with every tear he’s been forced to shed, there’s still thirteen years’ worth of _whatever_ in there. He doesn’t think all the tears in the world could fix it alone. But what else can he do? What else is there?

He doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know.

But no use dwelling. He grabs his coat and his list of foster children and decides to take a walk.

XXXXX

Erik’s resolve breaks Tuesday night. He picks up the phone just after nine and calls.

Hearing Charles’s voice again is… remarkable. Erik’s not half-asleep this time or in any immediate distress, and he can better appreciate the sound: accent melodic but upright, diction educated and yet lazy. Erik could listen to Charles talk all night. 

Or he could, except that Charles drives him absolutely bonkers.

Collecting children, Erik thinks, rolling his eyes when Charles tells him about his new hobby.

“Get them while they’re young,” he intones.

Charles takes offense, of course, and that was the point all along. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he says. “There’s no indoctrination going on. Or if there is, it’s of a moderately liberalistic doctrine.”

“No bible study?” Erik teases, because he can and it feels so good to smile again. It’s been so long since they’ve talked like this, bickering without intent. 

“Hmm,” Charles says. “What do I know about the bible?”

Probably more than some who’d profess to teach it, Erik thinks, but that’s neither here nor there.

“As a matter of fact,” Charles continues, “there’s no teaching at all going on in this group.”

Erik blinks. That doesn’t sound like Charles, and Erik tells him so.

“Well,” Charles says, and Erik almost laughs, because of course there was going to be a caveat. But instead of going on to describe all the ways he’s teaching them informally – about, God knows, composting, probably, or sex education, that slut – Charles just says, “I don’t mean to say I wouldn’t like to take over their education.”

 _In its entirety?_ Erik wonders. That seems a bit much. Charles is ambitious, of course, but he’s never actually taught school-aged children in a formal setting. And who would he get to handle the boring parts the snob decides he’s too important to handle himself?

“I’m certain I could make a better go of it than most of the lifeless drones in this pathetic excuse for a school they have here. But oh, there I go sounding bitter about it.”

Erik smirks. There’s the elitist Erik remembers. And he’ll deny he is one to his dying day. Oh how Erik loves him.

“Oh, you did that on purpose!” Charles says, when he realizes what he’s said. “Don’t goad me into a rant, darling, I’m vain enough already.”

Erik laughs. It feels very good, even better than the smile. The only thing better would be to have Charles next to him while he’s doing it. Also maybe if he could have all that but naked. That would be nice.

Charles lets out a breathy little, “Oh,” noise and Erik straightens immediately, suddenly chilled with dread.

“What?”

Charles hesitates and it puts the weight of worry back in Erik’s stomach. Charles’s explanation of a twinge, when it comes, is less than satisfactory. 

Is Charles keeping something from him, besides the obvious? Is there something else between them, some reason other than those put out in the open for why Charles might not want Erik with him? But what could that be?

Surely… surely Charles hasn’t found someone else. The thought hovers in the back of Erik’s head even as he listens to Charles talk about his children’s group, about the childish drama and the activities, and about how David fits into it all. Listening to his chatter is soothing, though, and eventually Erik remembers that he’s supposed to be trusting Charles – not just with his life (that’s the easy part) but with his heart, too. Charles would not hurt Erik intentionally. Erik just has to remember that.

Eventually Charles starts to yawn. He’s sounded tired this whole time, Erik realizes suddenly, and Erik hasn’t noticed because he’s a terrible husband. Yet it can’t be easy, shouldering the weight of the world as Charles does, even if that world consists solely of some ten children and a baby. Erik can’t imagine doing all that on his own, and even if Charles has superhuman (figuratively speaking, of course – not an actual mutation) stamina and optimism, he still must get tired sometimes.

“You need sleep,” Erik tells him, wishing he’d noticed before now. “Go to bed.”

To which Charles replies, “Only if you come with me.”

Oh yes. How could he ever refuse that? Erik would be on the offer in a heartbeat if it were plausible. Almost without thinking, he says, “If you’re offering…”

Please let him be offering. They could end this whole thing tonight. 

Charles yawns again, even as he’s trying to play the tease, and Erik remembers that his first concern has to be Charles’s well-being. Charles needs sleep first and foremost. Charles does not _need_ fucked, no matter how much he might beg to differ.

“You’re tired,” Erik says, as much for his own benefit as for Charles’s. They could both use the reminder. “You need sleep.”

“And once I’ve gotten my beauty rest?” Charles asks lightly.

“You’ll find out,” Erik says. And he will. Erik’s not going to let this one get away so easily. Not now, not ever.

XXXXX

Charles sends a picture Wednesday morning of David on his stomach on what must be the youth center’s floor. He’s got drool running down his chin. He’s never looked more like his papa, right down to the pointy ears. Gott, Erik misses them.

Later that afternoon, Charles sends a video of a blonde teenager feeding David something mashed and orange. The teenager looks particularly displeased with David’s attempts to grab the spoon from his hand.

 _He’s going to be a lefty_ , Charles texts right after.

Erik doesn’t know how to process the ensuing emotions so he doesn’t even try.

 

  


XXXXX

Thursday morning Erik gets a picture of his boys in their pajamas – bedhead, both of them, and neither looking very happy. It’s clear Charles is trying to smile, but the result is more of a grimace than anything. He looks so tired. He needs a break, clearly. He needs some help, even if only minimally. If Erik were there, he could help. David might scream and cry if Erik holds him, but Erik would do it if it meant Charles could get some real sleep.

But Erik isn’t there. And it’s his own fault. It’s his fault Charles is so tired. He tries not to hate himself for that. It’s not easy. 

On the other hand, he’s not angry about it, either; the water behind the dam roils and sloshes, but it stays behind the wall where it belongs, for the most part, and what does escape is closer to sadness than anger. That has to be some progress. Right?

XXXXX

Erik gets his cast off Thursday afternoon and his arm is free at long last. His skin feels naked without it. Also cold. But he can scratch now as much as he pleases without the aid of a pencil, and that’s something. Not _much_ of something, but that’s how it goes.

He sends a picture of his bare arm to Charles. There’s no response, and Erik hopes desperately that it’s because he’s taking a well-deserved nap. That blonde brat that was feeding the baby yesterday can surely take over the organization for one afternoon, can’t he? 

When Erik finds them, he’s going impress upon that boy the _severe importance_ of letting Charles get his rest. It will be a lesson the boy won’t quickly forget. Someone has to be the stern parent, after all, and Charles is too good-natured to manage it. When Erik finds them – and he _will_ find them – he’s going to be that parent. He’s going to be the man Charles deserves in every way possible. He’s going to take whatever those children (and _his_ child) throw at him and he’s going to weather it.

Charles will see that Erik has changed and he won’t ever leave again.

XXXXX

Erik finally gets a response Friday morning in the form of one of those smileys. But this one isn’t smiling at all. It looks constipated. Erik takes that as indication it’s not a good time to call. He has to get to work anyway and make up for the last six weeks of physical incapacitation.

It’s very nice to have both hands to type once more and if Erik’s heart were truly in the work he would probably accomplish great things. Instead he finds himself once again studying a map of the country, marking out where he’s been and where he has yet to be. The places he hasn’t gone far outnumber those he has, and it’s a depressing visual. And apart from a few small clues Charles has given him, he has no way of narrowing it down.

Charles is in a small town, that Erik knows, one with a large mutant child population. But small towns exist all over the country and the mutant population will be hidden from plain sight, not common knowledge or in any way noted by the government (and rightly so, considering the historical implications of such a registration). 

He’ll start in the West, he decides, taking Highway 93 from the Mexican border to Canada. That will take him through a good bit of desert and hopefully through many small towns. And while he’s traveling, he’ll be sure to keep up communication with Charles, get more information out of him. He hasn’t been very good about that so far, mostly because he hears Charles’s voice and gets a bit stupid. But doubtless that reaction will lessen with exposure and eventually he’ll be able to put to use his not inconsiderable information-gathering skills.

“What will you do once I’ve gone?” Erik asks Azazel.

Azazel, who doesn’t appear to have done much actual work this morning either, looks up from examining his hands.

“Same as we do now,” he says easily. “But less interference.”

Erik resents that, but says nothing. Without him they’d have no detection system and they both know it. Unless Emma has come through for them, but if that were the case they’d already have the girl in hand, wouldn’t they?

“Any news on the Brotherhood?” Erik asks instead. He hasn’t been back to a meeting since that first night, mostly because he doesn’t want his family any more associated than necessary with this mad venture.

“They search, find nothing,” Azazel says. “But they are many. It is only a matter of time.”

For a moment, Erik wavers. “I should stay,” he muses aloud. How can he be so selfish as to pursue his own personal quest when the life of a little girl hangs in the balance?

“Niet,” Azazel says immediately. “You go. One more person will not make difference. And the sooner you bring telepath husband home, the better our chances.”

Erik frowns. “You told me at the beginning of this you didn’t need him,” he says, trying not to get angry. Anger will solve nothing and he needs his wits about him.

“I say, if Emma did not fail us. And now she has. She does not give up, but she finds nothing. We need more help.”

“Then I’ll help,” Erik says. “You need more manpower, it’ll be me. I’ll stay and help you look for her.”

“You have found nothing also,” Azazel reminds him. “We don’t need more, we need new. We need your telepath.”

“You will not have him!” Erik snaps and slams his fist down on the desk. The lights flicker, the monitors rattle, pens scatter. Azazel’s chair jerks violently underneath him and it’s only his blinking disappearance that saves him from a collision with the wall behind him.

The next thing Erik knows he’s got a tail wrapped around his throat – not tightly, but as a warning. He’s not worried; he’s got six musketballs rattling around in his pocket, waiting for the chance to fulfill their purpose. They’ve served him in peace and now they will serve him in war.

But nothing happens.

“Why do you wait?” Erik says after a moment.

Azazel says nothing. Erik waits him out.

At last Azazel says, voice quiet, “You are my friend,” and all of Erik’s will to fight melts out of him.

God, he’s so stupid. What the hell is he thinking, starting a fight like this? It was one thing to be stupid about his life when he was a teenager and on his own, but he has responsibilities now. Hadn’t he just the other day promised himself that he would be there from now on to take care of Charles? And now first chance he gets he’s breaking his vow.

He forces the tension out of his body. He can’t reach for his pocket, not now when Azazel is watching his every move, but probably he’s too dependent on the touch of metal to calm himself anyway. He focuses his mind instead on the kind of peace he’d felt when he held his son for the first time, before everything went to hell.

It takes a one breath, then another, but eventually that does the trick and he feels his hands unclench as he relaxes fully. Azazel’s chair rights itself and the scattered pens come back together and into their jar on his desk. The hum of the lighting is a soothing uninterrupted buzz in the background.

Erik brings his hands up slowly, his two good hands, and surrenders. The tail loosens around his throat and in the next blinking second, Azazel is back in his chair. Erik meets his eyes deliberately. 

It’s not in his nature to apologize. He compromises with, “That was not my intention.”

“Nor mine,” Azazel agrees.

“I don’t want him involved.”

“You are not the only one who cares about him,” Azazel says quietly. And he doesn’t mean himself, Erik knows that, but instead Raven, to whom Azazel has become almost unreasonably attached these last few weeks. “And it is not your choice. That is not how this will work.”

Erik swallows hard, the magnitude of this proclamation hitting him in full. It’s an echo of what Charles said to him all those weeks ago, right before he left. And Erik… hasn’t learned anything at all, apparently.

“I want to protect him,” he says haltingly.

“And if he will not be protected?” Azazel asks.

And that’s where the trust is supposed to come in, isn’t it? It’s not just about trusting that Charles isn’t sleeping around. No, it’s also about trusting that Charles knows what he’s doing and can handle himself. And if anything terrible should happen, it’s about Erik trusting himself to keep living.

The first two aren’t easy, but Erik has been practicing. He knows Charles loves him and he doesn’t honestly think he would cheat, even if in the heat of jealousy the thought might cross Erik’s mind. And he also knows that Charles is extremely competent, highly educated, emotionally balanced, and enormously powerful. The decisions he makes are well-founded, even if Erik doesn’t like the outcome, and he doesn’t have the prejudices Erik knows he himself lives with – against humans, against doctors, against the police. He’s seen Charles in moments of brilliant deduction and he’s seen him in the heat of a firefight. Charles can absolutely handle himself, and though trust doesn't come easily to Erik, he does trust this, once he remembers himself.

But the third condition, the one where he to trust that he himself would be alright alone… he’s not sure that can ever be true. It’s ridiculous; he spent years alone with only himself and his own power to rely on. He was alone in prison and he was alone on the streets. He’s done it and he knows how it works.

So why does he fear so much to be left alone now? Why does he worry late at night that his son will reject him, that his husband will refuse him? Why does he dream night after night that his family will be taken away from him?

Gott, Erik is so fucked up. He’s… damaged. Something is definitely broken within him. And no amount of love for his family is going to fix it. But maybe _Erik_ can fix it. He’s been… managing it, so far. And that’s good, it’s helping with the anger and the helplessness. But he has no experience with this, doesn’t know where to go from here. Probably… as much as he hates to admit it, probably he needs a professional.

A twitch of Azazel’s tail suddenly makes Erik realize he’s still waiting for an answer.

Erik clears his throat, considers his options.

“I won’t stop him,” he says at last. As if he _could_ , if Charles put his mind to it. Though Erik's certainly not going to be the one to mention the situation, either. If Azazel or Raven want this, they're going to have to bring it up to Charles themselves. “But if he decides he wants no part of it, you don’t stand a chance of convincing him otherwise.”

“I have lived with telepath,” Azazel reminds him gently. “I know the risks.”

Azazel, Erik realizes suddenly, is very much like himself. He’s good at hiding it in the way Erik usually is, but this man in front of him is definitely damaged, too. Knowing what Erik does about his past, he’s not surprised. But Azazel generally has himself under control, and maybe that means he’s already been working on the solution. Once this whole mess is over and they’ve saved the girl (and Erik has found his family), he might just ask him.

“Then we have no problem,” Erik decides. “Take care of each other while I’m gone. And if you need me, call.” 

He pauses, then finds himself compelled to add, “You’re my friend, as well.”

Azazel inclines his head in acknowledgement of his words.

And that, Erik figures, is as good as it’s going to get.

XXXXX

Erik calls Charles later that night from a motel room in Southwest Pennsylvania. He wouldn’t have stopped so early except that he the night is exceptionally dark and, more importantly, he’s been hoping to get Charles on the phone.

Charles answers, sounding sleepy, and Erik worries for a moment he’s woken him.

“Were you asleep?” he asks.

“Not quite yet,” Charles says, but he yawns right after and Erik determines to keep this brief. Charles needs sleep, dammit.

“How’s David?” Erik asks. “Is he… eating?”

He almost hates to ask – he knows Charles is perfectly capable of seeing to all David’s needs – but it’s one of the things he worries about at night.

“Oh yes,” Charles assures him. “In fact he’s gotten quite heavy. I’ve been giving him more solids – mashed peas, carrots, that kind of thing.”

“You’re not mashing them yourself?” Erik asks, mostly to distract himself from the fact that he’s missing yet another milestone.

Charles laughs. “I’d say you know me better than that.”

“Yes,” Erik agrees. “That’s why I’m nervous. Is he still on the milk?”

“Mmm,” Charles says. “And my nipples don’t thank him for it. He’ll need it another six months, probably. Maybe more; we’ll have to see what happens.”

 _We’ll_ have to see. _We’ll_. Charles is including him in this.

“What else is he doing?” Erik asks, suddenly unable to contain himself. He wants to know everything. “Are you still reading to him?”

“Yes, of course,” Charles says. “Every night before bed. We’ve gotten a load of new books in for the youth center, anyway. We’ve been doing _Goodnight Moon_ , and _Green, Eggs and Ham_ , and – oh, his favorite by far is _Five Little Gefiltes_.”

Erik can’t help himself; he groans. Oh no. He’s not familiar with the book, but he knows the word _gefilte_ and he knows the limitations to his husband’s vocabulary.

“You’re not reading him that yourself, are you?” he asks tentatively. Maybe there’s an elderly community members who comes to read books for the children and actually speaks Yiddish. Though why Charles would have neglected to mention such a fellow, Erik has no idea.

“I do just fine, thank you,” Charles says, clearly affronted.

“You don’t speak Yiddish,” Erik reminds him. _Erik_ doesn’t even speak Yiddish, but at least he was exposed to it as a child.

“I speak German. It’s the same.”

“It is _not_ the same, Charles, and you damn well know it.”

“I know no such thing,” Charles says, voice haughty.

And that’s when Erik realizes he’s being teased. 

“You’re winding me up,” he says, not disapprovingly.

“Trying to, at any rate,” Charles agrees. “If you’ll be wound. You do make it fun to try, darling.”

“As do you,” Erik returns.

“We know each other so well,” Charles says, and in that moment Erik wants him so badly. Not just the sex – though of course he wants the sex, as well – but just to be with him would be a pleasure. He wants to ask for a clue, anything that would tell him where Charles is.

But it’s not a punishment if he doesn’t have to work for it, and they both know that.

Instead Erik says, “Tell me about the boy.”

And Charles does.

XXXXX

Erik drives from Berlin to Muskogee. David’s already asleep when he calls, so he listens instead as Charles daydreams about taking the children to an indoor water park one of these days, though it will probably have to be an overnight trip, as the closest one is a fair few hours away. It’s a clue without even asking, and either Charles doesn’t realize what he’s doing (unlikely) or he’s cutting Erik a break. Either way, Erik takes the information and runs with it.

As soon as he’s off the phone he googles indoor water parks. There are actually a large number of those, more than he’d have thought. But he’s a simple man at heart and one who swims laps for pleasure and exercise, when he swims at all, so he’s had no call in his entire life to consider visiting an indoor water park. Children these days are very spoiled... and it’s that kind of thinking that gets him into trouble, so he’ll stop while he’s ahead.

There turns out to be a park in Sheboygan, and Erik is reasonably close to it, so he decides to abandon his plans for Highway 93 and instead pursue this new lead.

XXXXX

Monday night, Erik calls early enough that David hasn’t yet gone to bed, and Charles puts the phone on speaker while they play together so Erik can hear him babble. Erik is so happy to hear the sound that he barely even feels the jealousy.

It’s only once David gets fussy and Charles hangs up to put him to bed that Erik starts to feel anxious again about the future. Will David ever calm for Erik? Will his son even remember his face?

XXXXX

Tuesday and Wednesday Erik traverses Wisconsin, trying feel out the major roadways surrounding Sheboygan for any signs of Charles’s wedding ring. He finds none and decides Wednesday evening to expand his search to the nearby states. If he finds nothing there, either, he’ll move on to the next park on the list.

Then Charles mentions Wednesday night (in the context of detailing a scavenger hunt) that the children have been jumping into piles of fallen leaves for weeks, and Erik has his next clue.

XXXXX

Thursday and Friday find Erik searching for the place where water parks and falling leaves intersect. He decides to set his pin in Aspen, which is one of the falling leaf capitals of the country and also relatively nearby at least two indoor water parks. Also it has a history of silver mining and Erik does enjoy the tingles that brings (not as good as a truly magnetic metal would be, but he can still feel it in his blood well-enough that he spends a few hours lurking around the Smuggler’s Mine). He doesn’t find Charles anywhere along the way, but he does find a stuffed duck that David might like.

Charles seems distracted that night when he answers Erik’s call. He must be working on something, Erik figures, but he doesn’t tell Erik it’s a bad time, so Erik presses on.

He asks about David first, of course, but Charles’s answers are perfunctory, and obviously that line of questioning is not going to lead to any great discussion tonight. Erik then tries asking about the youth center, which Charles always loves to talk about.

“Oh, there’s a Halloween party tomorrow night,” Charles says, but he still doesn’t entirely sound like he’s paying attention.

“Ah,” Erik says anyway, wracking his brain for a way to draw his interest. “Suppose you’ll be going as something more fashionable than Mariam of Nazareth now you’ve got your figure back.”

Charles laughs and tells Erik that he and David are going as kangaroos. Erik can only imagine how that’s going to turn out, and he can’t decide if the effect will be sexy or ludicrous.

“Take a picture,” he says. “Don’t forget.”

“Yes, of course,” Charles says, but his voice is breathy.

And then... oh then - Charles makes a noise that Erik knows intimately.

“Charles?” he asks quickly, because why should he be making that sort of noise with no warning? Maybe Erik’s mistaken. “What was that?”

Charles doesn’t answer right away, just keeps making that sound.

“Charles!” Erik snaps, because if Charles is getting himself off right now without letting Erik know… Erik will divorce him, he swears it. “Are you touching yourself?”

Charles admits that he is, but doesn’t invite Erik to join in, which is just unfair. Erik decides abruptly he’s not going to wait for an invitation, and gets his zipper down.

“You’re not mad, are you, darling?” Charles asks, voice sultry.

“Mad?” Erik says. What on earth would he have to be mad about? “Depends. Were you going to say something or just get yourself off while I talked you through it unknowingly?”

Charles does not deny that was his plan. That slut.

“Are you taking off your pants?” Charles asks.

Erik says nothing, but he is, pushing them down his thighs and kicking them off the rest of the way. Also his socks, because he’s not going to leave those on while he’s getting himself off - he's not a pervert.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Charles says, and he groans right after. 

Erik decides he’s not going to bother with his shirt and instead closes his eyes, trying to imagine what Charles is doing right now. Fingering himself, probably, based on those noises. And oh, Erik wishes he were there to see it. He wouldn’t just want to look, he’d want to get his fingers in there, too, maybe his tongue. They’d see together how just many of their fingers Charles could take.

His cock is throbbing already but he gives himself a good few firm strokes through his shorts, testing himself, seeing how much he can take before he has to really touch – not much at all, it turns out. Hearing Charles’s breathy whimpers and guttural moans puts Erik past the point of teasing. He shoves his shorts down, wets his hand with his mouth, and then wraps it around his cock. He exhales sharply and his dick jumps in his hand. It’s been so long – far too long. He’s been waiting, waiting for this moment.

“If I were there,” Charles says, and Erik starts to stroke himself – slowly to start out but he won’t be able to keep this pace long. He wants it so badly, just as badly as Charles must.

“If I were there, what would you want from me?”

“Suck me off,” Erik’s mouth says immediately and without his permission. He hadn’t known that was what he wanted but he does now and he can picture it clearly. Charles has the perfect lips, red all the time and obscenely skilled. And he’s always ready to use them, to drop to his knees at a moment’s notice and unzip Erik’s pants. Oh the fun they’d used to have in club bathrooms. And the dirty talk never had to end, even when Charles had his pretty, pretty lips stretched around the base of Erik’s cock.

And that’s another things Charles’s mouth is good at. Talking.

“Yes,” Charles says, so needy that Erik speeds up his pace. He’s leaking already, God, it’s barely been any time at all and he could come any minute, he’s so worked up. He wraps his thumb and forefinger just under the head of his cock and presses. His hips jerk, his cock leaks.

“You want my mouth?” Charles says breathlessly. “You want to fuck my mouth? But oh no, that’s not what you want, is it? You want me to suck. You want my lips and tongue tracing up your cock to the head. You want me to swallow it, don’t you, take you as deep as I can? But it won’t be deep enough, you’re too big for that, I’ll have to use my hand. And then – _then_ you can fuck my mouth.”

Erik groans and starts to jerk himself again. God that mouth!

“Is that all you want?” Charles asks. He whimpers, and Erik’s cock jerks again. This isn’t going to last long at all.

“No,” Erik says, because he wants that mouth, of course he does, how could he not, but he wants more – he always wants more. He wants Charles on his back, legs spread wide and ass waiting to be fucked. Erik wants to fuck him, wants to slide in deep and feel Charles pulsing around him. He wants to come inside him, leave his mark, and anyone else who tries to get there will know that Charles belongs to Erik and Erik alone.

Something changes in Charles’s breathing and for a moment Erik thinks he’s come, but no, that’s not it. There’s a shuffle and groan and then the harsh, panting breaths of Charles being fucked. He’s using something, he must be, because Erik knows those noises and they’re the noises of fingers not being enough.

“Gott,” Erik says, and if he had the finesse he’d work the head of his cock in his hand, but he doesn’t, so he uses more speed, more pressure and listens as Charles falls apart on the other end of the line.

He feels the pressure building - this going to be over soon = and he chases the feeling.

“Erik,” Charles says, and hearing his name like that drives Erik crazy. His cock’s leaking like mad. He's so close.

God, that mouth. That fucking mouth and the noises that come out of it.

“Erik,” Charles says again, voice breaking. “Oh. God. Yes. Erik.”

And that’s what Erik needs, that’s exactly what Erik needs. The pressure builds and builds and he lets himself fall into it. He comes. Half minute later, he listens as Charles does the same.

Afterward, as he’s lying wrung out and sleepy, Charles says, “I miss you. Where are you?”

Erik tells him and then preens silently when Charles calls him clever. He is, of course, he knows that, but it’s always nice to hear from one who knows him so well. They get into a tiff about whether silver is a real metal or not, and also about whether a ring can be expected to heat to body temperatures when worn. He has a violent shuddering moment when Charles talks about the metal being pressed up against his skin, but that’s nothing new and he’s too exhausted to even think about getting it up again.

They talk about the children for the moment, and Charles sounds completely relaxed. Whatever else he’s been doing this past week, he’s obviously been sleeping more. Erik’s pleased with this development.

And then Charles says, cool as you please, “Come back from Colorado. I never even left the North East.”

Then the hangs up, the complete bastard.

The North East. God, the North East. That’s nine states. And even fewer than that, actually, once you take out all the territory within which Charles would be in range of New York City. That probably leaves just Maine, the northern parts of New Hampshire and Vermont, maybe a bit of New York, and western Pennsylvania. It’s a lot of territory to cover and it makes his other two clues all but useless, but… it’s a significant step in the right direction.

It will takes weeks, at the most. Not months, not never, but weeks. Only weeks and Erik will be able to hold his son again, embrace his husband. Weeks, and Erik can prove himself to be the man he’s sworn to become.

He doesn’t know whether to be ecstatic or scared.

XXXXX

Erik swears he’s only been asleep a few short hours when someone shakes him awake. That he hadn’t noticed anyone’s presence in his room is a serious failing on his part – he’s losing his touch. He’s still half-asleep when he opens his eyes, but the sight of a blood-red demon with a fearful expression wakes him right up.

“What is it?” he asks, sitting up suddenly.

“Come,” Azazel says quickly. “We must go.”

“What?” Erik asks, scrambling out of bed and into his pants. “What’s going on?”

“The girl,” Azazel says shortly. “They found her. We must go now!”


	21. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay. This week has been emotionally draining and Erik's chapters always take a certain amount of fortitude to get through.
> 
> Oh btw, [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/171840542006796355/) is Ororo's coronation gown. Ororo obviously wasn't there to see the illusions by Wyngarde but someday in about five years she's going to get ahold of a copy of Raven's expose, read that detail about the dress, and decide she'd really quite like to own one just like it. Her then-foster parents will be very confused.
> 
> Warnings at the bottom.

If Erik’s expecting a firefight, he’s sorely disappointed. The dim room Azazel blinks them into is deserted except for a wet and bedraggled girl cowering in a corner and Raven in her natural blue, standing a cautious distance back from her. The static electricity in the air between them is so strong it makes Erik’s hair stand on end. That’s not a euphemism – he can feel it buzzing on his skin and singing in his blood.

“What is this?” he asks, looking from one to another of them. “Where’s the Brotherhood?”

“Just lost ‘em,” Raven says, carefully not taking her eyes off the girl.

Erik disentangles himself from Azazel and cautiously circles around to get a better look at her. Her nose is bleeding, he realizes abruptly, and she has what might be a black eye, though it’s hard to tell through all the blue.

“Is your cover blown?” he asks, flicking a glance back at the girl in the corner. She’s definitely Wyngarde’s would-be queen, though if it weren’t for the stark white hair, he probably wouldn’t be able to tell – her delicate face is smeared with mud and the wet, stained sweatshirt she’s clinging to has nothing on her coronation gown.

“Unbelievably blown,” Raven moans. She grimaces and brings one hand up to her face to wipe away the blood trickling down her chin. Her eyes are still on the girl. “And we’re not safe here. They’ve got numbers on their side, and at least one of them is sensitive to electricity – that’s how they found her.”

“Grab her then,” Erik says, not sure why she hasn’t made a move in that direction. The girl is tiny; she can’t be a match for Raven’s skill and strength.

“Can’t get close,” Raven says, gaze not wavering.

The girl, Erik realizes abruptly, is holding a knife and is making jerking feints in Raven’s direction.

“Disarm her,” Erik demands.

“She’s a child!” Raven snaps, and at last she makes the fatal mistake of glancing in his direction. The girl’s obviously been waiting for it: she leaps up from out of her corner in a heartbeat and tries to jab Raven with the knife. She’s quick and she’s angry, and she’d probably succeed except that Erik can feel the metal in the knife moving and he pulls it out of her grasp before she can do any damage.

“What the-” Raven doesn’t finish, just spins back around.

Erik sees her hands clench, sees her body shift like she wants to spring into action. He sees it the exact moment Raven realizes once again who she’s dealing with and the limitations inherent in that. Instead of attacking and driving her opponent back, she retreats another half foot. The girl falls back into her own corner, hands spread wide – not like she wants to surrender but like she’s calling down a power from the sky.

Damn those Kenyan priestesses.

“Grab her,” Erik says to someone, anyone. Azazel makes no move, obviously waiting to follow Raven’s lead. Raven shakes her quickly.

“Can’t risk hurting her,” she says. And she says again, “She’s a child!”

As if Erik could have forgotten. He would _never_ hurt a child.

“Yes,” he agrees and forces levity into his voice, because this is getting ridiculous. “I’m aware. But children are resilient.”

He reaches out with his power and grabs a hook around the girls’ belt buckle, yanks her across the room and into his arms.

“Erik, no!” Raven shouts, throwing her hands up like she’s going to intervene, but it’s too late and Erik has an arm wrapped around the girl’s chest.

The moment he touches her, Erik feels what Raven was trying to avoid – an electric current so strong it burns the skin of his palms. Erik hisses and throws up EM shields at once, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. The girl, realizing he’s not going to let go at her attack, starts to squirm in earnest. But she’s ten at the outset and Erik’s done his fair share of grappling over the years. He knows how to keep a grip without causing damage.

He’s not expecting her to bite him. 

It hurts like hell. His first instinct is to let his frustration well up inside him, but he shoves it viciously back down even as he wrenches his arm out of her mouth – he can’t give in to it, not even for pain. This is a child and he is a father and he will _not_ hurt her. 

“You do that again, child,” he warns her as calmly as he can manage, “and you won’t enjoy the consequences.”

It’s an empty threat, but she doesn’t know that. All she knows is that he’s larger than her, immune to her main defense and won’t rise to the bait of her attacks. It doesn’t take a telepath to tell Erik she’s terrified. It hurts him to know he’s causing that, but no matter what he does right now, he can’t change it. And he needs her docile until they’re out of immediate danger. He’ll make it up to her later; he prays he gets that chance.

“We need to split up,” he says, wracking his brain, trying to remember how he’d done things the last time he’d been on the run. “Safer if we’re not together. And we have to keep moving. No more than a night in one place.”

Raven’s face has gone pinched. For all her travel in the pursuit of exposing corruption, she’s always been able to come home at the end of it. She can go off and play the hero and then come back to her apartment and her family with no consequences. She’s been safe and stable for so long now – longer even than Erik has been. But she’d known once how the game of running goes, and Erik has no doubt that it’s all coming back to her now.

“I have to stay,” she says, taking a step back, as though she might make a break for it. “I have to keep an eye on them.”

“No,” Erik and Azazel say at the same time. Erik and Raven both look at Azazel in surprise – he’s not usually one for open disagreement with a plan, especially not a plan Raven’s come up with.

“It is not safe,” Azazel says, and Erik can see how is his eyes are wide and desperate. He cares a great deal for her, that’s plain – more than maybe he should after knowing her for so short a time. But Erik can’t throw stones on that front, either.

“We need you elsewhere,” Erik adds reasonably, in case Azazel’s appeal to her emotions doesn’t work. “Someone has to write the article, Raven. The sooner it’s published, the sooner the authorities can take action.”

It almost pains him to add this last bit, and he wishes for a moment he could just agree with her. They could go in guns ablaze, the three of them, and take down the Brotherhood once and for all. He trusts his own strength more than he will ever trust the police. And if it weren’t for his family, that would be his first choice. But as it stands, he can’t afford to put himself on the wrong side of the law or bring the wrath of humanity down upon him – not when he has a family to protect. Raven is part of that family, whether she likes it or not.

For all the good it does, he might as well not bother to speak. Raven doesn’t even look in his direction. Her eyes are locked on Azazel, who’s holding out a sharp-nailed hand, his tail wrapped around himself like he’s scared. And he is – he must be: not for himself, but for Raven, who thinks she can be invisible, invincible. 

Erik feels almost like a voyeur, but he doesn’t look away, even as Azazel says, “Come away with me. We will run. You will write. Publish. And when it is finish, we will come back.”

Raven hesitates. After a long tense moment in which Erik fears to breathe, she nods and steps forward to take his hand. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“How long will it take?” Erik asks, cutting in on what in other circumstances might be a beautiful scene. This is no time for romance, and he knows it’s not just the throbbing in his arm making him irritable. This is not a good plan, but they’re in a hurry and now that they have at least some form of strategy, they can’t afford to dawdle. 

Raven cuts him a look, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “To write? Maybe two days. More if we have to keep moving around. I need my notes and my laptop from the apartment. We’d better do that first, before they figure out where I live and swarm the place. But then even once it’s written it has to get published. That could take a few weeks.”

“That’s not soon enough,” Erik says, and God... his head is pounding, his heart is in his throat, his arm is throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and the little girl in his arms won’t stop struggling.

“Well what do you want me to do about?” Raven snaps, throwing her free hand up in exasperation. “I don’t control the publication, Erik! And we need to go through the right channels or it won’t look legitimate. Do you want the police to investigate this or not? Because if not, I say we go back to the Brotherhood and give ‘em hell.”

And Erik wants that, of course he does. He and Raven are not so different. But… what chance do they have against such numbers? And there’s a child in his arms that needs Erik’s protection. He _must_ protect her, this little girl. She’s his to protect. Just like Charles and David. And he can’t do that if he’s dead.

Gott. “Fine,” he says. “Two weeks then. Keep out of sight until then.”

Raven nods. “And you call my brother,” she returns. “Make sure he stays on the down low.”

Erik swallows hard. He can’t even imagine trying to explain to Charles this whole situation and his part in it. But he’ll have to. There’s no choice at this point. He only hopes Charles can forgive him – for this and for everything else.

“Yes,” he says, and then he needs to suddenly tighten his grip on the girl in his arms as she tries to make a break for it.

“Keep still,” Erik hisses at her.

“If you’re all done making plans without me,” she hisses back, and Erik blinks, surprised. He’d known objectively that she probably could speak, but he hadn’t heard her do it yet. This is new.

“Yes,” he says coolly, addressing himself directly to her this time. “We _are_ done making plans without you. And now that our plans are made, we’ll be off. Azazel, take us back to Colorado. We can go our separate ways from there.”

XXXXX

Erik takes the girl when they split up, because he’s the only one of them who can shield from her electric shocks. He’s also the only one of them who really knows about children – even if it’s only a nominal understanding - and he hopes it will give him the greatest chance of not damaging her irreversibly.  
Probably having to manhandle her into the car and fuse her seatbelt shut isn’t the greatest start on that.

Ideally, he’d leave her in the care of someone who actually knows what they’re doing, but people of that nature he can trust are few on the ground. Charles springs to mind, obviously, but Erik can’t risk entangling Charles any further in this mess. Even if Charles can hold his own, there are the other mutant children to consider. Erik has a better chance of protecting this one girl while on the move than he and Charles would have combined of protecting an entire town’s population. Once Raven’s article is published and the authorities are on the alert, it will be another matter.

Though honestly, there’s no telling if that plan will even work. In the past, some of Raven’s articles on corrupt corporations have garnered a significant amount of attention – but not all of them have. And even of the popular ones, there are only a few cases in which the government investigated in any noticeable way. Those investigations took years to compete, too. Incompetent humans. 

Erik doesn’t really think the government will do the right thing here and in a timely manner. But if that’s the argument that was going to sway Raven to go into hiding, he was glad to agree with it at the time.

Going to ground makes the most sense right now. Erik has a plan half-formed in his mind that may in the end solve their problems. The Brotherhood has numbers and its members are zealots, but even zealots must separate at some point – even they must sleep. Now is not the time for a surprise attack, not when Erik’s so recently stolen away the crown jewel of their empire. But once tempers die down… well, there’s no reason a metalbender and a telepath who have done this sort of work before can’t go on the hunt. One by one, that’s how you bring down a group. And those who live through it will never remember afterward that they’d ever sought to destroy Erik’s family.

But until things calm down enough to put that plan into action, there’s no reason to bring Charles into this. Charles is, after all, already laying low. Telling him about this mess will only upset him. It’s not about trust – this omission of the truth. Erik trusts Charles with his life and he trusts him to protect their family when the time comes. But that time has not yet come and Erik would not have his lover worry unnecessarily. Better to wait until there’s reason to tell him.

In the meantime, nothing has changed for Erik. He’s still on the move, and he’s still on the search. He won’t endanger this hidden town by bringing the girl there, but that doesn’t mean he can’t go to the North East. It’s as easy to hide in Maine as it is in Kansas. And if Erik’s occupying his mind with the search for his family, maybe he won’t go crazy with waiting on this article. 

Anyway, if Charles does get dragged into this mess before Erik can put their plan of attack into action, it’s better that Erik is close enough to dive into the fray, especially considering that there’s no longer a teleporter waiting for his call.

Erik will search and he will hide. The girl with him will adapt to the situation, Erik has no doubts on that.

XXXXX

“Are you hungry?”

Erik half-expects the girl to maintain her sullen silence, but instead she whips her head around to sneer at him. 

“What do you care?”

Erik considers this for a long moment. At last he comes up with, “I know what it is to be hungry.”

“I doubt that,” she says, eyes narrowed at him. “Do you also know what it is to be kidnapped?” She gives the seatbelt a pointed jerk.

“Yes,” Erik tells her. “I do.” More held prisoner than kidnapped, but it amounts to the same thing.

“Don’t lie to me!” the girl snaps.

Erik glances at her and then back to the road. “I don’t lie.”

He doesn’t. If he says a thing, that thing is the truth – at least when it matters. He doesn’t lie to his family, and for all that this child isn’t _his_ little girl, she’s his responsibility for now and he won’t mislead her.

“Well that’s convinced me,” she says cattily. 

Erik smiles. He had no idea ten-year-olds were this clever. She’s much better conversation than he’d been anticipating.

“Believe me or not,” he says easily. “It makes no difference to me.”

Her clothes are finally starting to dry, he notes with another glance her way. She must be uncomfortable in those clothes, but when they were so close to where Azazel dropped them Erik couldn’t risk a foray into a shopping mall for fear the Brotherhood were somehow on their trail. He’d gotten more confident after they turned onto the Interstate, but the girl hadn’t stopped struggling for at least an hour after that (and if he never sees a child try to jump out of a moving vehicle again, it will be too soon; she took about ten years off his life with that stunt).

Now, with Denver and maybe four hours of highway between them and Aspen, it’s probably a good time to stop. The child doesn’t seem any less angry than she did when they began their trip, but at least she hasn’t tried shocking him or taking control of the steering wheel or any other foolhardy attack in at least an hour. Probably she’s tired. With the attack last night – and Erik vows to get the full details of that out of her eventually, once she becomes more cooperative – she probably didn’t sleep well. And that makes two of them.

“We need to get you out of those clothes,” Erik says, more to himself than to her.

He knows he’s messed something up at once when the level of static electricity in the car, which has been slowly declining for the past few hours, immediately shoots back up to uncomfortable heights. Erik grimaces, skin tingling. He clenches his hands, trying not to lose his grip on the wheel.

“What is wrong with you, child?” he asks, probably more gruffly than he ought. When he’s sure he’s got his grip back, he risks another glance at her.

She’s shaking, he realizes at once. Her legs are drawn up in a way they hadn’t been last time he’d checked on her, and her arms are wrapped around them. It can’t be comfortable with the unforgiving lap belt against her belly, but whatever’s terrified her has taken precedence over her well-being. And that’s… very worrisome. 

She hadn’t been like that just a moment ago. She’d been angry and mouthy, but not frightened. Erik has frightened her, and the realization puts the hollow feeling of guilt in his chest. He swallows it back, knowing whatever sort of reaction he has now, it can’t be for his own benefit. He must think this through, and figure out how to fix it – and he has to act quickly.

“You’re alright,” he starts tentatively, feeling his way through the situation. He’s shit at comfort – his rocky start at parenthood is proof enough of that – but Charles isn’t here to take over the hard parts, so there’s no choice but to flounder through it.

She doesn’t look like she’s buying it. He tries again.

“Child,” he says. “Ororo. No one will hurt you. I promise you that. I will not let anyone hurt you. Not even me.”

He reaches out a hand to touch, to comfort, but she shrinks back from him. Of course, his words mean nothing without trust between them. And he’s done nothing to earn that from her yet. He draws his hand back and instead reaches into his pocket to draw out the knife hilt.

“Would you feel better to have this back in your possession?” he asks, offering it to her. As he speaks, the metal comes back together to form the blade. It’s an empty gesture – they both know she won’t be able to stab him unless he wills it – but the symbolism is there all the same.

Ororo grabs the knife quickly, lest he change his mind, and cradles it to her chest. He worries for a moment she might cut herself, but she’s obviously held a knife in defense before. Erik’s not surprised; not all foster placements are terrible, he knows that, but his own experience in the system taught him that it’s very easy for harm to come to a child such as this. Erik hates the humans for that, not just on his own behalf, but for this girl, too. She deserves better and Erik vows to give her that. She may not be his forever, but she’s his for now and he will do right by her.

“We’ll get you dry clothes,” he promises, eyes back on the road. He has a feeling the less attention he pays directly to her at this point, the more comfortable she’ll be. It hurts him that she doesn’t want his touch, but not the way David’s rejection hurts him – probably because this isn’t personal and he knows her less well, whereas David’s rejection had been about Erik and from his own son. “A hot meal, as well. And then… things will look brighter.”

The words aren’t up to Charles’s standards, but Ororo isn’t shaking any more, either.

Erik considers it a victory.

XXXXX

Erik is slightly worried about taking Ororo into the mall complex he’s found. For one thing, he’s not entirely sure she won’t try to run again. In fact, odds are that she will. He doesn’t want to restrain her in any way and risk breaking the fragile trust they’ve built between them in the half hour since he gave her the knife back. The knife itself could cause problems, as well, but he won’t take it from her. That’s her lifeline, and he respects that.

But they have a bigger problem, anyway. Even if the knife goes unnoticed and the girl stays put, a grown man wandering around with a girl who looks nothing like him will almost certainly gain them some unsavory attention. Erik's not white exactly, but he's not _not_ -white, either. That is, he doesn’t consider himself to be white and the people who know what he is (read: the other children in the group home) certainly don’t consider him that, either. But he's pale and his hair is bordering between red and brown. The girl's complexion isn't as dark as it had first appeared in Wyngarde's illusion, but it's different enough from Erik's that there are probably going to be questions. And if the girl starts to struggle again or makes any mention of having been kidnapped...

Erik's probably about to be arrested.

Well. Wouldn't be the first time.

“You stay by my side,” Erik warns Ororo when he lets her out of her seatbelt. He doesn’t know how much she understands or was ever told about the Brotherhood and their plans for her. He doesn’t want to scare her, but he needs her to understand that she’s safer with him than she would be with them or on her own. A shopping mall isn’t the place for that conversation, though. It will need to wait until Erik has found them a safe place to sleep, and gotten her more comfortable. The latter is contingent on finding food and clothing, so those must come first.  
Ororo says nothing, but gives him a look like they’ll see about that. Erik will not definitely not be taking his eyes or senses off this one.

They make for the plaza with the food stalls first, because Erik hasn’t eaten in at least sixteen hours and though he doesn’t feel hungry, he knows he probably should be. Even if he weren’t, the girl surely is by now. Children need to eat and eat well. As Erik had told Ororo earlier, he knows what it is to be hungry. He won’t allow his children to know that feeling, not if he still has breath left in him.

“What do you eat?” he asks the girl.

She looks up at him warily like she doesn’t quite believe he’s going to pay to feed her. She’s not sure there won’t be a hidden cost in her near future for this meal. Erik’s not surprised. She’s definitely been the streets, this girl.

“You have no choice,” he tells her, not unkindly. “You will eat. Pick or I will.”

Ororo glares up at him with narrowed eyes. They stare at one another for a long minute, neither blinking. Then the girl scowls and jerks a pointing finger toward the nearest sandwich stall. She says nothing and Erik doesn’t push it.

Erik buys them sandwiches, which they eat in oppressive silence. For all her sulk, Ororo does not turn down the meal once it’s in front of her. She eats with the speed of one who’s learned to guard her food with jealousy. He doesn’t doubt that was a lesson hard-learned. He feels sharp guilt over it even as he knows that’s ridiculous and counter-productive – he hadn’t known her then and could have done nothing. Still he wishes he could have spared her that pain.

After they’ve scarfed down what ends up being a pair of terribly dry sandwiches, Erik stands guard outside the women’s bathroom while Ororo goes inside. The matrons coming and going do indeed give him suspicious and angry looks, but no one says anything or calls the authorities. Erik lets their anger roll over him without rising to the bait; he has more important things to worry about, like ensuring Ororo’s knife remains within his sensing distance.

To Erik’s great surprise, the girl doesn’t try to run, nor does she attempt to convince anyone she’s been abducted. After she finishes her business, she comes stalking back to Erik’s side. The scowl is still on her face, but she says nothing, so Erik takes advantage of her compliance to lead her into the nearest clothing store. 

Unfortunately, this is the point at which Erik runs into another problem: he has no earthly idea what little girls wear. He has a vague idea in his head about pink tutus and princess tiaras, but he recognizes that this is a stereotype and nothing more. Erik’s (admittedly limited) understanding of child developmental theory – picked up from stray thoughts and sheer osmosis during Charles’s doctoral work – leads him to believe children shouldn’t be shunted into traditional gender roles for fear of limiting their self-confidence and means of expression. Pink or blue, trucks or dolls, it makes no difference to Erik; in his long list of competing identities, homosexual usually falls somewhere after mutant and before immigrant, though the deck can stand to be reshuffled at any given moment depending on the circumstance. That’s all to say, he’s worn his fair share of pink over the years and if his son were to do the same, what would it matter to Erik?

Ororo, at any rate, looks nothing like the type of child who would wear anything frilly – a ball gown, perhaps, but not a tutu. When Erik lets her loose within the confines of the store to choose what she will, she flits back and forth between different sections so quickly Erik stops even pretending to keep track. Instead he focuses again on her knife. As long as that knife stays tucked inside her sweatshirt (and he has to assume she’s not so foolish as to bring it out inside a shopping mall), he’ll have her in his sights even if he can’t physically see her.

He waits impatiently outside the dressing room while she goes in. The bored teenager who unlocks the door for her barely even glances at Erik as he waits, which is both a relief and rather worrisome on the grand scale of things. But Erik supposes it’s not this boy’s job to watch after stray children and ensure they haven’t been kidnapped. Probably not many kidnapped children come this way anyway.

Ororo takes so long in her cubicle that Erik’s tempted to think she’s abandoned her knife and somehow escaped out a back way. But at last the door opens and the little girl comes strutting out like she’s on the catwalk. 

Time to seems to freeze in shock at what she’s wearing. The store clerk stares. Erik stares. Ororo glares at them, and it’s a look Erik knows only too well; if she were a bit older it would be called smug superiority, and it’s a look Charles has mastered. _Tell me I’m wrong, Erik_ , that look says. But Erik can’t find the words for that.

The outfit Ororo has chosen is… something straight out of the DDR punk scene: acid wash jeans, combat boots, stylized t-shirt under flannel under a denim jacket two sizes too large. She’s done something with her hair, probably having palmed a styling gel at some point.

Erik glances subtly around the shop, trying to figure out how she’s managed to put together something so disturbing in this ordinary family clothes store. He sees nothing but knit sweaters, silk blouses, argyle socks. Ordinary clothes.

When he turns back to the girl, she’s still watching him with her chin tilted up pugnaciously. She’s waiting for his response.

At last he says, “Quite a look you’ve put together. Though I hope you enjoy being cold.”

With her powers, he’s not sure she can even _become_ cold, but the look she gives him when he directs her to the woolen jumpers is definitely worth the effort of saying so.

XXXXX

The escape attempt Erik’s been anticipating finally makes itself known as Erik’s paying the cashier. Ororo’s lurking by the mannequin display with her new backpack full of underthings (including a bra, dear God, and what does Erik know about those) and the changes of clothing Erik’s pressured her into getting. Erik’s got one eye on the girl and the other on the cashier, but when the latter tells him the total he has to grit his teeth and give her his full attention, because he honestly has no idea how he’s going to explain a charge of over two hundred dollars from a clothing store to Charles if he asks. Next time, Erik is taking the girl to a thrift shop. Hell, she’d probably enjoy that, given her eclectic and not-quite-fashionable tastes.

He almost doesn’t notice the fog at first. If it weren’t for the consequent up-spike in static electricity, Erik probably would pay it no mind as he swipes his card and signs his name. But the moment he feels the charge in the air, he realizes it’s no on-display smoke machine causing the disturbance – it’s the girl. And sure enough, when he spins about to look at her properly, she’s gone from the window.

Fuck.

Erik doesn’t panic. He's been anticipating this. Ororo hasn’t left her knife behind, which means two things: 1) she clearly doesn’t understand his full capabilities, and 2) she can be easily found again. She’s not been gone long enough to have moved outside his sensory range, and even in this Saturday morning mall crowd, Erik has no doubt he’ll be able to find one little lost girl. One little lost _armed_ girl, at that. But he’ll need to move quickly – not just so she doesn’t escape permanently or injure another shopper, but also because of the looming possibility that the Brotherhood might be on their trail. Erik doesn’t think they were followed, but he has no doubt the members of the Brotherhood are watching the weather very carefully all across the country. This little storm Ororo’s just conjured might be enough to draw their eye. They’ve found her once before and they can do it again. That means Erik must get the girl and get out of here before their position becomes noticeable.

So Erik tells himself he’s not panicking, even as his heart starts thudding in his chest at the fear that he might be too late. He closes his eyes, slows his breathing, and opens his mind to the metal around him. There are distractions, as always, but he moves past those. He’s looking for a specific signature – a pattern-welded fixed-blade knife surrounded by the warm static electric field that with which his little weather vane surrounds herself.

And there she is: dashing out into a parking lot surrounded by hundreds of cars. Probably she’s intends to hitchhike or possibly she has the knowledge of how to hotwire; he’d put nothing past her at this point in their acquaintance. Either way, he needs to hurry. She’s in real danger out there, with or without the Brotherhood on premises – he daren’t risk her getting picked up by a man with less honorable intentions than Erik’s.

Erik signs the receipt with record speed. He doesn’t bother to take his copy, just pockets his bank card and bolts for the store entrance. The girl has picked the parking lot on the opposite side of the building, so Erik sprints that way, dodging past lone shoppers and pushing his way through crowds. He’s got longer legs than the girl and he makes better time than she must have, though her speed wasn’t half bad if she’d already gotten out the door by the time he even noticed she was gone. She’s got the wind to speed her, no doubt.

The cold air stings Erik’s face and hands the second he’s out the door, but he pays it no mind. His heart is still pounding like mad – from the sprinting and the fear both. She sees him before he sees her and she bolts, but it gives her away. His eyes are only a second slower, and he’s much, much quicker. He overtakes her well within the bounds of the parking lot, snatches her up into his arms and clings, even as she pushes wave upon wave of electric shock into him. Erik rides it out, grits his teeth against the pain and holds tight.

It takes him much longer than it should to get his EM shields back up and functioning, but he manages it eventually and Ororo’s attacks become ineffectual. The minute she realizes this, she starts to struggle physically – kicking and trying to hit, even with her arms pinned by his. Erik fights to contain her fury without hurting her. The whole point of this is to save her; he will not hurt her in that effort, not even if she scratches and bites him. He will keep her safe. He will not hurt her. She’s _his_.

And that’s when she starts to scream.

XXXXX

It takes real power to get a screaming, struggling ten-year-old back into his car at the speeds necessary to avoid being arrested for kidnapping. But Erik manages it.

By the time he’s wrapped the seatbelt back around her and fused the clasp, her screams have petered out into terrible gut-wrenching sobs. It’s worse, somehow, than the ear-shattering screeches of moments before. 

It breaks Erik’s heart to hear it. It’s like hearing David cry, but worse somehow, because crying is what babies are meant to do, and they do it even when there’s nothing wrong. But for a child of this age to cry in this manner, something must be terribly, terribly wrong. And Erik knows without a doubt that he’s caused this. He’s the one making this poor little girl cry her eyes out. He’s the reason she can’t catch a breath without it stuttering in her chest. He’s the reason she’s got snot and salt running down her face, stinging the skin of her delicate cheeks.

They can’t stay in this parking lot, not after the scene they’ve just made, but Erik can’t bring himself to just continue on their journey, either, not when this little girl is in so much pain. He wants to do something about it. But what?

First thing’s first. He finds them another parking lot a few minutes away to idle in. Grocery store this time, and enough cars that it won’t seem suspicious if they stay a while. Then he does the thing he’s wanted to do since she started crying: he reaches over, unsnaps her seatbelt, and pulls her across the console into a hug.

She freezes at first, and Erik does the same. If she wants him to let go, he will, but he doesn’t think that’s the case. Children need comfort, isn’t that what Charles is always saying to him? God knows this little one’s had enough call to be strong in her life. Now is the time for someone else to be strong for her. Erik will be that man, if she’ll let him.

She freezes for the space of one breath, then another. Even her tears have gone silent. And then she all but falls into his arms and starts to cry again in earnest. Erik wraps his arms around her more firmly and tries to think past the ache in his heart, the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know what comes next. This is as far as he ever got with David. And he hates that, wishes he could have done better by that boy. His own son and he doesn’t even know how to comfort him. 

But that’s going to change. It’s already starting to change, even as Erik picks up the pieces of the himself and glues them back together to make someone new. He doesn’t quite know who he’ll be at the end of this quest. He doesn’t know what he’ll be capable of by then. He only knows that he right now he can’t let this little girl in his arms go uncomforted.

From somewhere in the back of his mind, a tune comes to him. It comes in bits and pieces. He doesn’t quite remember the words, but he thinks the song is something his mother used to sing to him. He starts to hum, little girl cradled against his chest.

The girl keeps crying, and Erik… he holds her through it.

XXXXX

Even after she finally stops crying, Ororo is still melancholy the rest of the afternoon. Erik gets her tucked back into her seat and seatbelt – without the welded clasp this time – and they get back onto the eastbound interstate. Erik doesn’t try to talk to her. He doesn’t think she’d take well to platitudes, and he wouldn’t know what to say, at any rate. He’s never exactly been verbose, but his skills of rhetoric are impressive when he believes firmly in something. This is different – he’s on shaky ground in these emotional issues. It’s probably for the best that he keeps his mouth shut. But he does let her cling to the stuffed duck he’d picked up in Aspen. He also stops for ice cream once they get to Nebraska, just because he can. Kid’s had a rough day; she could use a treat.

They stop briefly in the late afternoon so Erik can ensure the girl stays well-fed. She brings the duck inside the diner with her and positions it so it’s watching Erik as he tries to eat. Erik takes this as indication that she’s getting her attitude back, though she doesn’t seem near as angry as she was earlier. If Erik had to venture a guess, he’d say she’s tentatively accepted her situation and his part in it. She doesn’t quite trust him yet, but she’s willing to entertain the idea that he probably doesn’t want to hurt her.

“Were you in foster care?” Erik asks bluntly while she picks at her chicken strips.

Ororo scowls and says, “Why do you care?”

After a moment of deliberation, Erik tells her, “It’s something we have in common.” He doesn’t really know what he’s doing with this. He’s never been circumspect about his past, but that doesn’t mean he goes about telling near-strangers his history.

“I found the streets to be preferable to a group home,” he goes on carefully. “But I was several years older than you and could take care of myself.”

Ororo bristles. “I can take care of myself,” she snaps, her fingers shredding her chicken in her hand.

“And yet the system managed to pick you up.” It’s only a guess, the same one he’s had for weeks, but her tiny scowl tells him he’s correct. “Where did they send you?”

“Spanish Harlem,” she grits out, nose wrinkling up as she says it. 

Erik suddenly realizes that this girl is the daughter of a princess and a diplomat. She would have never been exposed to poverty before her parents died. His first ignoble thought is that she and Charles will get along well. His second thought is to be impressed by how well she’s adapted. She must have gone from wanting for nothing to fending for herself in a matter of dazed hours after her parents’ deaths. And yet she’s managed it, young through she is. Erik is intensely proud of her for that.

“How long did you stay?” Erik asks.

Ororo’s eyes flick up at him and then away. “A while,” she says evasively.

Erik lets her get away with it. It doesn’t really matter. “There were other children?”

Ororo sighs and says slowly, “There are _always_ other children.”

And yes, Erik thinks, there are. They don’t always mean harm, but the threat is always there. And the ones you don’t fear, you end up fearing _for_ , which is much worse in the end.

“Well,” Erik says after a contemplative moment, “there’s only you and I for now.”

The girl narrows her eyes again like she doesn’t think that’s much better, but she says nothing.

Now would be a good time to ask her what she knows about the Brotherhood, Erik thinks. But somehow he can’t bring himself to mention it, not when the girl is so calm and unafraid. He’ll have to say something eventually but… not yet.

And when, after they’ve finished eating, Ororo grabs her stuffed duck and walks easily with Erik back to the car, he can’t quite bring himself to regret that decision.

XXXXX

By early evening, Erik’s exhausted, both physically and mentally. He finds them a motel just off the interstate and makes Ororo come into the office with him as he pays for a twin room. She’s starting to look squirrely again – flighty and yet violent – and he doesn’t dare leave her in the car for fear she’ll be gone by the time he returns. Bringing her in means the manager gets a look at her, though, and Erik doesn’t like that one bit. For one thing, he is again subjected to the suspicious side-eyed glares saved for a grown man traveling with a child who looks nothing like him. For another thing, while he doesn’t seriously think the Brotherhood will politely question this deskbound woman about the girl’s whereabouts, if the human police get involved, this is just one more witness to Erik’s crime.

He compensates for all of that by being ostentatiously parental: calling the girl to his side to run a calculatedly gruff but caring hand through her hair, licking his thumb and trying to wipe away a smudge of dirt she’s somehow managed to collect on her cheek. Ororo patiently allows this, but she’s got one eyebrow raised like she knows what he’s about and she thinks he’s overdoing it.

Well, if he’s overplaying it, he might as well go all the way. When the woman hands him his key, Erik thanks her, reaches down to grab Ororo’s hand in his own and says, “Come, Schnecke.”

Ororo bursts into a fit of giggles, but then manages to stifle them long enough to say, “Yes, Vati.”

Erik’s taken aback by this – both by the giggles and the moniker. But now is certainly not the time to bring up either.

In their room, Ororo instantly becomes much soberer. She starts giving him a mild version of the terrified look from earlier in the day, the one he’s since worked out means she’s worried he has sexual intentions toward her. It makes him sick to his stomach that a girl of this age has any such notion, but he tries not to think about it. If he gives the matter too much thought, he’s going to have to find whoever taught her that lesson and murder them. And as he can’t protect her from inside a human prison, he distracts himself with other things instead. All he can do at this point is remain gentle and unsolicitous, and make sure no one else touches her without her consent ever again.

She looks wary when he decides she’s going to need a shower, but he lets her take the desk chair into the bathroom to prop up under the handle. The chair is metal, so it’s an empty gesture, but if it makes her feel better about the whole thing, he’s not going to complain.

It’s only after he’s gotten the girl squared away in the bathroom that Erik notices he’s missed a message from Charles. He opens it up to find a picture of David in a highchair with something green and brown smeared across his face and into his hair. Erik grimaces, glad he doesn’t have to clean up that mess. 

He hits the call button. Charles answers on the second ring.

“Hello, love,” he says cheerily.

“What have you done to our son?” Erik demands.

“Er,” Charles starts, sounding slightly puzzled, “given him life?”

Fair enough, Erik supposes.

“What did he eat today?”

“You mean, what did he attempt to eat and instead get all down his front?” Charles asks, tone light again. “Lots, actually. That was zucchini in the picture, but he’s also scarfed down cereal, mangos, and bananas – you know how he loves those. I’m also convinced Alex has been giving him applesauce every time my back’s turned.”

“I don’t like this Alex having control over when my son eats,” Erik says grimly.

Charles laughs. “Oh don’t worry, juvenile corrections taught him to keep a tight schedule. He just can’t say no to a baby pout, that’s all.”

Erik makes a noise of displeasure. “That somehow does not reassure me. And anyway, why are you at the center? Aren’t you meant to have weekends off?”

Charles makes an affronted noise. “Surely you haven’t forgotten the Halloween party, darling!”

Erik had forgotten, as a matter of fact, what with all the other excitement. “Must have slipped my mind. But now we’re on the subject, where are my kangaroo photos?”

“Must have hopped away,” Charles teases.

Erik frowns. “You promised me a picture, Charles,” he says, put out. It’s not just that he wants to see Charles in funny dress – though he does – but the pictures he’s been sent so far have either been only of David or of the two of them from the shoulders up. Erik wants a body shot, though not necessarily in the way Azazel suggested the other day – although he wouldn’t say no to that, either. Mostly he just wants to be able to see Charles in full, the way he would if they were together. He wants to know all the little things: has Charles lost any more baby weight, has he started wearing ugly cardigans again, has he at last decided to buy a pair of shoes with proper arch support? But he can’t ask those things. All he can do is wait for a picture.

“I don’t think I promised any such thing,” Charles says easily. “But don’t fret. Kat Summers was clicking away like mad the entire party. I’ll meet up with her Monday to go through them, and if there are any that make me look halfway decent, I’ll send one your way.”

“Decent or not,” Erik says, “it makes no difference. I want to see you.”

“I suppose you have seen me in labor,” Charles concedes. “I don’t imagine a bit of face paint and candy residue will drive you off at this point.”

The point is well-made: if Erik never sees Charles in that much pain again it will be too soon. But he doesn’t want to think about that now, not when it’s irrelevant to their current situation.

“I’ve also seen you covered in glitter with vomit down your front,” he says instead, “and I don’t just mean the first trimester.”

Charles laughs again. Erik takes a seat on the bed and closes his eyes, the better to bask in the sound. 

“Tell me about the party,” he says, and Charles does.

XXXXX

After maybe twenty minutes on the phone, Erik becomes aware that the shower noises from the bathroom have stopped. He lets Charles go on a bit still, not wanting their peaceful moment together to end, but by the time Ororo pokes her head cautiously around the doorframe, Erik knows he’s got to hang up.

“Something needs my attention,” he says, cutting into a story.

“Oh,” Charles says, sounding confused, “are you back at work? On a Saturday?”

“No,” Erik says shortly, not wanting to say he’s going to quit his job in favor of keeping the girl hidden. Charles knows nothing about the girl, and now’s not the time to bring it up. “But I have to go.”

“Alright,” Charles agrees. “I’d probably better get David cleaned up and ready for bed, anyway.”

“Tell him I love him,” Erik says before he can stop himself. “And you, also.”

“Of course,” Charles says, voice open and earnest and wanting. “We love you, as well.”

The say goodbye and then Erik hangs up.

When he looks up, Ororo is watching him from the opposite bed. He hadn’t the foresight to buy her any sort of nightclothes, but she’s wearing a pair of soft pants and a t-shirt he’d picked out for her to supplement her alterative wardrobe.

“Who was that?” she asks.

Erik blinks. He’s not sure why he’d expected her to beat around the bush – she’s showed no signs of being shy or afraid to speak her mind thus far – but it still takes him by surprise. For a moment, he’s not sure what to tell her. The truth, he decides, is probably for the best, and if she has a problem with it, better to deal with that now than later.

“My husband,” he says simply. “But he had to go put our son to bed.”

Ororo’s mouth drops open a little. “You’re… gay?”

“Yes,” Erik says. He pointedly doesn’t ask her if she minds. 

She watches him for a long moment, mouth open and eyes narrowed. Then she says, “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“Prove to me you are gay,” she demands. “I don’t believe you!”

“I don’t lie,” Erik reminds her, but he dutifully fumbles with his phone for a picture Charles sent him the other day, one with Charles smiling cheerily at the camera and David drooling on himself. He flips the phone around to show Ororo, who inches closer to see it properly.

She studies the picture for a minute, eyes flicking up to Erik’s face then down again to the picture, probably trying to see if there’s any of Erik in the boy. At last she straightens up, crosses her arms and says, “This proves nothing. That could be anyone in that picture.”

Erik scoffs, and yanks his phone back. He flips through his pictures, trying to find one that has three of them together. He finds nothing recent, and it’s no wonder: he’d spent much of the turbulent few months before the incident trying to get out of holding David and making him cry. Eventually he comes across one from just after David was born, with Erik sitting on the edge of the hospital bed and cradling the babe while Charles looks on fondly.

“Here,” Erik says, showing Ororo.

The girl’s eyebrows draw up in surprise. “Was he sick?” she asks, noting Charles’s hospital attire. 

“No. He’d just given birth.”

“But boys don’t…” Ororo starts, then trails off, awkward and unsure.

“No,” Erik agrees. “They don’t usually. But he’s special.”

“He’s a mutant,” Ororo realizes, and she takes Erik’s phone forcefully from his hand to get a better look.

“Yes,” Erik agrees. “He’s a telepath. The baby, too.”

Ororo smiles, but it’s rueful. “I don’t think a telepath would like to see what’s in my mind,” she says sardonically.

“Nor mine,” Erik says. “But you get used to it.”

Ororo hands his phone back and looks up at him, eyes suddenly shy. Her smile hasn’t entirely gone away, and Erik’s pleased.

“I’ve never met someone else like me,” she says quietly. “Not before last night when… when those others took me.”

Erik clears his throat, pushes down the impulse to be angry at this situation.

“You’ve met me,” he reminds her. “And I’m not like that. I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t even know your name,” she whispers.

“Erik,” he tells her, holding out his hand.

She shakes and he feels the tingle of static when their hands touch – not a threat, just a reminder of her power, her potential. As if Erik could forget.

“Ororo,” she says, and adds as an afterthought, “Thank you for the duck.”

XXXXX

Erik manages to talk Ororo into leaving her knife on the bedside table rather than on her person while she sleeps. Their bonding moment gives him more sway than he would have had beforehand, but it doesn’t change the fact that the girl has a mouth on her and knows how to use it. Nevertheless, she agrees eventually to putting the knife down, and he gets her settled into the bed opposite his.  
He goes about his nighttime routine as quietly as possible after that, trying to give her room to fall asleep. She still doesn’t quite trust him, he thinks, but she doesn’t think she’s in danger, either. It’s a good medium ground, and he knows how tired she must be. He doesn’t think there’s any way she won’t sleep tonight. Just in case he’s wrong, though, he subtly seals shut the door to their room.

The girl looks to be sleeping by the time Erik crawls into his own bed. He falls asleep quickly, the only thought in his mind that he absolutely cannot have a screaming nightmare tonight. He can’t expose the girl to that this soon in their acquaintance.

But his aren’t the dreams he needs to worry about, after all. He’s wakened sometime later by a whimpering from the other side of the room. He stays still and silent, unsure of what to do. He wants to go to her and comfort her, but he doesn’t want to risk making it worse. He doesn’t know exactly what happened to her on the streets or in the system, but Erik won’t add to that pain, not if he can help it. So he stays frozen as the girl whimpers and thrashes and then suddenly sits up gasping.

There’s a brief but intense shock wave of static electricity that goes through the room, but it dissipates quickly and Erik determines it probably wasn’t strong enough to signal their location to any watching enemies.

Erik watches through slitted eyes as the girl creeps out of her bed and into the bathroom. He hears the tap and the splashing of water. Then the girl comes back into the main room. She looks Erik’s way, and he pretends to sleep. After a long moment of deliberation, she returns to her bed – to sleep, Erik thinks, but he’s mistaken. She grabs the duck, ghosts a hand over the knife, and then tiptoes over to the side of Erik’s bed.

 _It doesn’t make any sense_ , he thinks as she carefully crawls under the covers with him. She should fear him. At the very least, she definitely shouldn’t be climbing into his bed. Her reaction earlier when he’d innocently suggested they get her out of her clothes makes him sure someone somewhere has hurt her in a way that’s so unacceptable Erik can’t even contemplate it. Why, then, is she allowing herself to be vulnerable in his damn bed? Is it the knowledge of Charles and David that’s tipped the scales? Erik doesn’t know.

He opens his eyes fully and looks directly at her. She freezes when she realizes he’s awake, and for a long moment they stare at one another, neither daring to move. Then at last Erik realizes he’s got to be the parent here. He slowly lifts one arm in invitation. She takes him up on it, crawling over into his space and burying her wet face in his shoulder.

She falls back to sleep a few minutes after that, but Erik lies awake much longer, little girl fast asleep in his arms and inexplicably trusting of him. He doesn’t know how he got to this point in his life: so swept away by a child that doesn’t belong to him – one that he won’t get to keep at the end of all this – while his own flesh and blood son is out there not even knowing how much Erik loves him.

The guilt eats away at him. Erik knows guilt. He’s lived with it all his life. He knows intimately how much blame can be laid upon his shoulders. It’s his fault his mother died, he’s always known that. He doesn’t regret what he did to Sebastian Shaw in revenge, though he probably should, but the knowledge of what he’s done isn’t as easy to bear as he tries to pretend. And the people he went through on that first quest, before he had Charles to temper him… there’s no excuse for those wrongs.

Fresher even than all those other wrongs is the hurt Erik’s done to Charles. That’s the one that stings the most. But underneath Erik’s guilt for striking his lover are layers and layers of anguish for all the other ways in which he’s failed his family, his son most of all. He hadn’t understood at the time what he was doing, the harm he was causing. All he’d known in the moment was that no son of his would grow up to be damaged the way Erik is damaged. And if that meant being stern, so be it. 

He knows better now. He doesn’t know quite when the understanding came to him – maybe with a stuffed mouse at Meteor Crater, maybe with an orphan girl at a cheap motel in Hastings, Nebraska. But he knows now, regardless of when and where and why it happened. While Erik was still torn apart inside by the memories of his childhood that the birth of his son had unearthed, he could neither comfort that son nor provide the support his lover needed to care for him. His anger and envy have stopped him from being the father he needs to be, and he didn’t even realize it at the time.

But Erik knows better now. And however competent Charles might appear to be, Erik knows in his heart that Charles does need support. It’s emotionally and physically draining to care for a child alone – Erik’s seen that first hand today.

On the bed beside him, Ororo starts to stir again. For a moment Erik’s concerned his loud thoughts have woken her, but then he remembers she’s not a telepath. And anyway, Erik can’t be blamed for thinking his own thoughts – not even if David were here. If David were to cry from the discomfort, that’s fine; Erik will rock him back to sleep.

This girl by his side is too old to be rocked properly, but Erik does what he can: he lays a hand gently on her back and starts to rub soft circles. He has the sense-memory of this being done to him as a small child – perhaps by his father while his mother hummed her lullaby. Someday David will look back and remember that lullaby. So, too, will this girl.

As the words come back to him at last, Erik opens his mouth and softly starts to sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied sexual abuse of a child. Or at the very least, a child who fears she might be sexually abused.


	22. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't bore you with excuses about my term paper or my pet project at work or any of the other things that kept me from updating for so long. What I will tell you is that twice last week I sat down to finish this chapter and instead of doing that, I ended up writing 3500 words of a different AU about how orphan!Alex comes to a point in his life where he manages to throw up on colorblind!Erik's front lawn. So there's that.
> 
> Also. [This](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/162481499029540427/) is Charles's and David's costume. [This](https://www.etsy.com/listing/245536382/sully-minnie-mouse-ears?ref=market) is Hank's, which he stayed up late the night before making by hand. It's not stated, but Alex threw on a batman mask and Scott went all out as his Robin.

Charles wakes Saturday morning to a crying baby and the realization that he’s going to need to perform some serious gymnastics to get himself upright. He still feels pleasantly well-fucked from last night’s proceedings, but he’s also aching in a way that makes him think he may have overestimated how vigorous a fucking he could take at this stage of his pregnancy. He feels heavy all over and worryingly like a turtle overturned. Actually he’s not that much heavier than he was before David – fifteen pounds, maybe – but the shift to his center of gravity has been causing more and more problems this past week. It’s exactly why he needs Erik around – not just to give him a hand up in the mornings, but also to do all the sexual heavy-lifting so Charles doesn’t wear himself out.

At least it’s not long now until they’re together again. Though Charles hesitates to even consider what Erik is going to think when he realizes just why Charles needs the extra help, especially with David carrying on like this.

“Just a moment, Mäuschen,” he tells the baby over the sound the child’s distress. 

The baby takes no comfort from his words, of course, and Charles has to grit his teeth against the want to shield the poor child from his papa’s annoyance. He somehow manages to resist the temptation. He lets himself feel annoyed at the crying and doesn’t try to repress, though he does compromise by sending David a quick flash of _love-warm-comfort_. It’s enough to bring the volume back down to manageable levels.

Getting up is a particular struggle, and oh yes, he remembers this from his first go-round. It’s a good thing he knows the tricks this time. He rolls himself over onto his side facing the edge of the bed and manages to swing his legs over the edge at the same time he levers his torso upright. He has to sit still for a moment after that to get his bearings, but then he pushes himself to his feet with little trouble.

Honestly, the whole process is ridiculous. He’s only just past twenty weeks; he’s undeniably pregnant now, but he’s certainly not at the stage of needing the forklift to haul him up. It’s just that he’s out of practice, that’s all.

David stops crying the moment Charles picks him up, because David is a spoiled brat who cannot bear to not be held. Or he’s beginning to develop separation anxiety – that may also be the case. Either way, his cries die off when Charles scoops him up into his arms.

“You’ll have to learn to be patient, you know,” Charles tells him. “We’re not going to let your daddy get away with his self-destructive, standoffish nonsense, but he’s going to need some time to warm up to the idea. You’re going to get some bad feelings from him and you’re just going to have to put up with it. It won’t be easy, at first… but he’s worth it.”

David shoves his entire fist in his mouth, apparently unconcerned. He’s thinking of breakfast, Charles knows, and his thoughts are significantly more lucid than they had been mere weeks ago. Now when he thinks of food, it’s not just in yellowy feelings of hunger any longer. David now has the capacity to know what he wants and draw up memories of it. Now he’s remembering the taste and texture and smell of a fresh banana.

“You need milk more than you need fruit, darling,” Charles tells him gently. “But we’ll have bananas later, alright?”

He takes David into the living room and gets them settled on the sofa. There, he very carefully exposes a breast for David to latch onto, mindful of the tenderness that never really went away. He doesn’t remember it lasting this long when he was pregnant with David, but perhaps it did and he simply can’t remember. At least the nausea has disappeared almost entirely (barring odd moments when the metal taste in his mouth makes him gag or the heartburn becomes unmanageable). But he’s hungry now and that means David latches without Charles having to fake him out.

As David eats, Charles lets his mind wander. It dances over thoughts of Erik, and no surprise there; Erik is always on his mind. And if he’s not thinking about Erik, he’s thinking about the children he and Erik made together. Well, or about the children at the center, but even then Charles can’t help the constant wistful daydreams about how Erik would handle himself in an environment like that.

He used to be much less domestic, Charles thinks. He used to have other things to think about besides his family and the other assorted young ones he looks after. Before he ever knew Erik, before any of this domestic soppiness, Charles is sure he had other things to preoccupy him. Getting laid, for one thing, in between bouts of studying genetics. But that had just been undergrad at Oxford. Before that, he’d been a just child and he kept himself busy trying to look after Raven, protecting her from the wrath of his stepfather. Which, actually, is something of a domestic affair in itself (though his vow stands that his children will never learn what that sort of fear feels like. Charles is letting Erik find him now because he’s come to the conclusion that what happened that night between them was an isolated incident and Erik is working on fixing the underlying causes so that it never happens again. Charles knows now, after much introspection, that it was his own hang-ups that caused him to run, not a rationally-drawn conclusion that the violence would be ongoing. Charles is quite certain now that it won’t happen a second time. But if it does… there will not be a third incident. And if Erik ever lays a finger on either of the children… Charles will eviscerate him, end of story. Erik is the love of his life, but Charles will do anything for his family. Anything).

So perhaps, then, he’s actually always been rather family-oriented and just covered that up with more pressing concerns of sex and genetics. But now Erik fulfills the sexual needs (and he does it very well, Charles might add), and birthing mutant children is something of a practical lesson in genetics all on its own. Hell, birthing _human_ children would be a lesson in genetics, and Charles definitely has the edge there. The “x-gene,” as it were, is… not unpredictable, of course, but not widely studied and not well-understood, even within the intellectual circles Charles sometimes crashes through. But one thing is for sure: this little girl he carries will have a mutation. He can sense it in her. He doesn’t know quite yet what her power will be – it was much easier to sense David’s telepathy because of the feedback loop – but she _will_ have one.

And speaking of his darling Häschen, it feels like she might be waking up, no doubt disturbed by uterine contractions from her brother’s nursing. David notices the commotion, too, and he loses interest in eating. It’s a momentarily relief to Charles’s poor nipples, but the longer this process takes to complete, the worse it’s going to be for all of them.

“Are you done, then?” Charles asks, lightly tapping David’s pudgy cheek to get his attention.

David pays him no mind, focused instead on scratching lightly at the skin of Charles’s belly. God, he’s going to be so confused after the girl is born. He doesn’t realize, Charles thinks, that the barely-formed mind that so preoccupies him is an actual baby. David knows babies by now, sees them in passing and brushes clumsily against their thoughts, though he’s never connected with any of them the way he seems to connect with his sister. Charles has no doubt he himself is the conduit here: David is so in tune with Charles’s body and for the time being, the little girl is part of that body. Heaven knows how David’s going to react once his favorite play-thing develops the ability to cry as well as nominally think.

But that’s a worry for another time. For now, David needs to eat and if he’s not going to eat, Charles is going to put his nipples back into his shirt where they belong. He tries a few more times to get David’s attention (a fruitless effort), then decides David can’t be all that hungry after all if he’s allowing himself to be distracted. If he gets hungry later, Charles will give him that banana he was looking for earlier.

Charles puts himself back together while David wriggles down to press his face against Charles’s belly, where he drools and babbles nonsense at his sister. David isn’t best pleased to be scooped back up into Charles’s arms again so Charles can hoist himself upright, but there will be plenty of time for play once they dress and get down to the youth center.

But God, Charles realizes suddenly, David is so heavy. And that’s not just pregnancy fatigue talking. David’s really a big boy now: seven months old and eating solids, and soon he’ll be crawling and teething. And best yet, though it hasn’t been that long at all since Charles decided to stop shielding the baby from the worst of Charles’s emotions, David’s currently the most agreeable he’s ever been in his life. Perhaps that’s down to his age and not the lack of strategic protective shielding, but at this point it hardly even matters. They have their bad days, when Charles is grumpy or upset and David is correspondingly fussy, but David seems to be bouncing back from that ever more quickly. It seems Erik was right after all: sometimes it really does take a bit of tough love, for the good of the child.

Charles takes David and his exerciser into the bathroom with him so he can keep an eye as well as a thought on him. Afterward, they relocate together to the bedroom where Charles scrutinizes his closet.

The trouble with being pregnant and not a woman – besides the obvious – is that maternity clothes are simply not made for men. He’d lucked out with finding just the right size of nursing undershirts (in which he’s had to move up several sizes this past month, and he is not pleased about that one bit), but outerwear is more difficult. For all that Charles supports the abolishment of gender norms (and the pink/blue divide with them), he just can’t bring himself to try on the vast majority of maternity clothes available on the market. It’s one thing to don a dress for a gag or slip on some frilly panties at Erik’s behest, and quite another to parade around town wearing a pastel or flowery baby-doll top. Charles, for all that he might share certain reproductive organs with them, is very definitively not a woman.

Luckily, the upswing in the past few years of transgender visibility means he has more options than he might have had if this secondary mutation had been activated at the beginning of his and Erik’s relationship (or, God forbid, before he ever knew Erik, back when he was slutting it up at Oxford in undergrad). At the very least, there are a few specific sites out there that cater to butch pregnancy needs, and Charles is extremely grateful for that fact now as he picks out what he’s going to wear. He’s thankful also once again for his private bank account, because quite apart from probably giving away his location, God knows what Erik would think if he saw an invoice from a transgender clothing company.

And speaking of that…

“We should probably tell your daddy about you, shouldn’t we, Häschen?” he asks lightly, dropping a hand down to palm the curve of his belly. The little girl in him squirms – from his voice or his touch, he can’t tell – and his wedding ring does its little heating trick.

Charles frowns, distracted, and pulls his hand away to really look at it. It looks the same as it always does. There’s nothing odd or unusual here. Except the warmth, which hasn’t yet receded. Erik’s words come back to him, the hypothesis that it might be one of the children teasing him. But Charles stands by what he’d said then: even if Petra’s powers extended to metal (and he’s not sure at this point that they do or ever will), what possible reason would she have to fiddle about with Charles’s wedding ring? No one on earth is as invested in this ring as Erik (though Charles coming in at a close second) so who else would be concerned about a bit of metal on his finger? Who else even is close enough every time it happens to be the cause of the reaction?

Well, David is, Charles supposes. But it can’t be David. He might be able to sense Charles’s sentimental attachment to the ring, but he certainly doesn’t understand the implications of wearing it. And anyway, his powers are purely passive at this point: he can’t project. Even if he were learning that skill, it would start with a magnification of his babyish thoughts, not with altering a single random point of Charles’s perceptions.

But if it’s not David (and it’s not, Charles is sure of that), who else could it be? No one else has been present every time the ring worked its magic. It’s just been Charles and David the entire time. Unless he counts the little girl he carries, but that’s ridiculous. She’s still barely formed – the size of a banana this week, if he’s remembering his baby books correctly. Just because David had developed telepathic sensory perception in utero doesn’t mean his sister will be the same. It’s completely ridiculous to even consider… isn’t it?

“Good God,” he says aloud as the other shoe hits the floor. “Surely not…”

Slowly, hardly daring to consider the prospect, he brings his left hand back to rest on his stomach. The ring, which has been slowly cooling, begins to warm once more.

“Dear God,” he breathes.

Erik is going to cry.

XXXXX

Charles gets to the youth center around mid-morning to find Alex and Hank already there and hard at work. Alex is busy cutting out spooky decorations using the stencils they’d printed yesterday. His tongue is between his teeth and he doesn’t even look up when Charles comes in.

“Alex,” Charles says in greeting. “And Hank, how are you?”

Hank jerks, looking up from his textbook with wide eyes.

“Oh, Professor!” he says and smiles ruefully. “You startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can assure you, I wasn’t that stealthy,” Charles says, smiling back. “You must have been absorbed in your work. But you didn’t answer my question: how have you been?”

Hank can tell what he’s really asking and he blushes prettily. On Charles’s orders, Hank and Alex went to the market yesterday afternoon for ingredients for Kat’s cooking class, and by the time they reappeared an hour later, they’d seemed to have gotten over their post-argument awkwardness. And it’s about bloody time, too. But Charles had been managing a tantrum from one of the little ones when they’d walked back through the door, and then he’d gotten pulled into mediating an argument between Jean and Jubilee. So what with one thing and another, Charles hasn’t had time to corner either Alex or Hank and make them recount happened while they were out. 

Now, though, he’s got the time and the inclination. But he can’t go around asking these daft boys about their feelings _in front of one another_. That’s just asking to be lied to. What he can do, however, is nod agreeably as Hank answers his question with inane details about his schoolwork, and then mention he needs help in the backroom, and won’t Hank be a doll and lend a hand?

Hank knows what Charles is about – he’s a genius, after all – but he lacks the ability to tell people “no,” so he dutifully follows Charles into the backroom where Charles makes up a story about needing that particular football off the top shelf where they keep the sports equipment. Charles certainly doesn’t enjoy being a head shorter than all the men in his life, but the height difference can be very convenient in moments like these when he needs to make up chores on the spot.

“Thank you, darling,” he says when Hank hands him the football. “Would you also be a dear and fetch down the jump-ropes? And, er, the extra basketball, as well.”

Hank looks at him with a raised eyebrow, silently daring him to come up with an explanation for why he needs these things taken down. Charles doesn’t bother.

“So how did things go with Alex yesterday?” he asks, not troubling with subtlety.

“Fine,” Hank says, grabbing the jump-ropes, too. “I did what you said and told him I wanted to be friends again. He said, ‘whatever,’ and asked if granulated sugar was the same as powdered sugar.”

“I see,” Charles says. “And what happened after that?”

“I told him it wasn’t the same thing at all,” Hank says, and he smiles innocently when Charles scowls.

“That’s not what I was asking and you damn well know it, Henry McCoy.”

Hank’s smiles fades. “We didn’t talk about anything serious, Professor. But that’s okay. It’s enough that we’re talking again at all.”

Charles nods and puts a comforting hand on Hank’s arm.

“I’m glad the two of you have made up,” he says, and he is. “And I don’t want to take away from that victory. But don’t forget you’re going to have to talk about your problems eventually, okay? That’s the next step, and you won’t be able to avoid it forever. Sooner or later you’ll have to speak to Alex about your plans for next year.”

Hank’s gaze drops to his shoes. “I’ll have to decide what those plans are before I can talk about them,” he says quietly.

“Whatever you choose, Hank, I’ll be here for you,” Charles promises. Not that it’s much consolation.

Hank nods slowly.

“Now then,” Charles says, determined to lighten the mood. “I just have one more favor.”

Hank looks up, question on his face.

“Could you put these things back up on the top shelf?”

Hank gives him a _look_ , like he knew it all along. And so he did.

XXXXX

Alex is as cheery as he ever gets the rest of the morning, and Charles doesn’t blame him for that. Alex isn't the one struggling with a major life decision, after all. He’s got his best friend back and he’s doing a job that makes him happy. And though Charles can tell the boy is still worried about the inevitable moment when Hank leaves him for a bigger and better world, Alex is a champ at compartmentalization.

Together, he and Charles manage to get the center’s main room decked out in spooky orange and black. Hank, handy as always, helps them out by carving expertly scary faces into the pumpkins. Charles runs out to get his costume necessities, then Alex very kindly helps him glue everything together. At lunchtime, Alex feeds the baby while Charles meticulously follows Kat’s written instructions on how to make green punch with little floating gummy eyeballs.

Finally, at ten ‘til one, the children start to arrive. Hank has gone back to his studying by this point, so Charles gives him a playful slap on the shoulder until he sighs and goes to put away his books. When he comes back into the room, he’s all decked out in a set of Monsters Inc Sully ears and a blue feather boa. He blushes scarlet when he realizes everyone is staring at him, but he just shrugs if off and says, “Si fueris Rōmae, Rōmānō vīvitō mōre; si fueris alibī, vīvitō sicut ibi.” Then he grabs a lollipop from the huge candy bowl on the side table and pops it into his mouth.

Alex whimpers. Charles smiles. The children all start to scream for candy. It’s already the best Halloween party Charles has ever been attended.

XXXXX

Erik calls that night to ask about David’s eating habits again, but he seems distracted, like his heart’s not quite in it. Charles thinks about asking if something’s wrong, but if Erik hasn’t volunteered the information outright, chances are he’s not going to give up his secrets just because Charles asks. It makes Charles a hypocrite after what he’d said to Hank this afternoon about not ignoring his problems, but Charles has long known that about himself anyway and he’s learned to live with it.

The conversation ends rather abruptly after maybe half an hour of casual chit chat, quickly killing off Charles’s fledgling hopes of any more phone sex – not that he would be up to for another round with the vibrator, but he wouldn’t be opposed to a quick and easy wank with Erik’s voice in his ear. He considers going through with it on his own even after Erik’s rung off but in the end decides he’d rather wait until Erik can be a participant also. Sex is always better with another person, and Erik is far, far from _just_ another person.

XXXXX

Monday morning Charles finally gives in and calls a local obstetrician. He probably should have done it as soon as he realized he was pregnant, but he hasn’t been terribly motivated; he can feel the little girl, after all, and he knows she’s perfectly fine. He doesn’t know what a doctor could tell him he doesn’t know himself already.

The trouble with having mutations that manifest physically is that there’s always a certain amount of stigma attached. He hadn’t truly understood that before David, even though Raven has always been very vocal about the point. But he gets it now: the way doctors stare at you, the way they poke and prod at you as though you’re a lab rat. That’s why Charles dares not leave any human doctor with the lasting memory of his condition. The first time around he’d very gently _persuaded_ the attending doctor that everything about the situation had been perfectly normal and therefore did not need discussed with anyone else. Naturally that limited the amount of research the doctor could do, restricted as she was from discussing the case with her colleagues. It had done the job, though, and Charles is confident that no one outside of the few people he’s personally told know about this mutation.

He imagines he’ll have to employ similar tactics this time around. It makes him uneasy to manipulate people’s thoughts in that manner, and he certainly regrets he was unable to find out more last time about his reproductive system, but the safety of the children must always come before his own comfort or curiosity. Even his scruples, for all that Erik may disdain them as weakness, can be put aside to protect the little ones.

Erik would agree: it’s family first. Always. Even if that means making an appointment he very much does not want to attend.

To make the whole thing seem like a bit more of a field trip (and because he’d promised), Charles invites both Angel and Hank to accompany him Wednesday afternoon. He’s made Angel her own appointment for next week, but he wants her to experience the process as an observer first so when she’s in the driver’s seat she’ll be able to feel more in control of the situation. Hank will probably never have to make this particular appointment for a fetus of his own (barring any experimentation he may decide to do down the road with gene therapy, though that’s a thought for another day) but if he wants to spend his afternoon in a doctor's office, who is Charles to argue?

Neither of his companions are in the best of moods, unfortunately. It’s about a twenty-minute drive to the nearest office, and Charles makes small talk to take their mind off their individual worries. It doesn’t have quite the intended effect, however, and by the time they’re pulling into the parking lot, Hank’s worked up his nerve to voice his concerns.

“Professor, are you sure you should have waited this long to make an appointment? I was doing some research and most sources recommend a first office visit at fourteen weeks at the latest.”

Charles nods. Alright, fine. He's mucked it up. He can admit when he’s in the wrong. 

“Yes, of course you’re right, dear boy,” he says. “I really should have done this sooner. I was, er, rather preoccupied by other matters, as it happens. And while I believe I’d know if something went wrong with the child, there are always potential complications with my own body that I would perhaps be less aware of. I’d like to think I know my way around a pregnancy by this point, but there’s always that chance, isn’t there?”

As it is, he’s been taking his prenatal vitamins (and ignoring the amplified taste of pennies in his mouth), checking in with his little girl in his free moments, and relying on David to let him know if anything’s gone terribly wrong (he would know first, after all, with all the time he spends reaching out to his sister). 

Not that Charles thinks anything actually _will_ go wrong, but it’s always better safe than sorry and he’s rather dropped the ball here. It makes him feel like a terrible human being and a terrible father, but the guilt isn’t as unmanageable as it might have been just a few short weeks ago when he’d been forcing himself to repress. Now he lets himself feel the emotion for a reasonable amount of time, then tells himself that it’s not the worst thing in the world and tries to move on.

“What about prenatal testing?” Hank asks, still worried. “There’s a timeline you have to meet for that sort of thing.”

“Ah.” Charles is on firmer ground, because this one really _wouldn’t_ have made a difference. 

“As it happens, there’s no real point in me getting any prenatal testing. Some women choose to end a pregnancy if the child is seriously ill or has trisomy 21, but my particular situation makes ending a pregnancy an impossibility, as I’ve said before. Other women use testing as a chance to make preparations for any potential complication – health care, childcare, that sort of thing - but again, that’s not really applicable in my situation. I have the luxury of being wealthy, you see; I could certainly arrange for any necessary special care on short notice after the child is born. At this point, the only thing a genetic test could do is make me worry.”

He finds them a parking spot and kills the engine.

“Shall we?” he asks.

David is fast asleep from the drive, thankfully, and hopefully he’ll stay that way for a while yet. Hank offers to hoist the car seat, and Charles lets him, even though it makes him feel rather useless. 

Neither of the children says anything as they make their way through the double set of doors and into the lobby, but Charles can feel their apprehension. It’s not, he realizes a moment later, a fear of the office itself or even of what the appointment might reveal. No, they’re just scared people are going to recognize him for what he is: a pregnant man.

And that’s rather insulting, isn’t it? As if Charles doesn’t have the power to render himself unremarkable to the eye of the beholder. As if he hasn’t been doing it this whole time when he feeds David in public. Really, these young ones have no faith. All it takes is a touch to his temple and a bit of concentration and none of the other expecting mothers in the waiting room even give him a second glance. It’s really very easy to make oneself inconspicuous; most people are halfway to being oblivious to their surroundings anyway. They don't really _want_ to notice you, and Charles simply has to encourage that impulse.

Charles checks in at the front desk and then takes a seat with Hank and Angel on either side. David, in his seat on the floor, is still asleep, and he stays that way for the next ten minutes until Charles’s name gets called. 

Charles performs a more complex trick on the nurse who weighs him and draws his blood for iron tests (which Charles thinks will likely be slightly elevated in correspondence with his little darling’s special gift). The nurse has no doubts in her mind that anything unusual is going on as she checks his blood pressure and questions him about unusual contractions. Nothing at all is strange about the situation to her: not the presence of two random teenagers, not the fact that Charles hasn’t been seen yet despite being past twenty weeks, and certainly not the fact that Charles is a man.

After she leaves them to wait for the doctor, Hank looks at Charles. 

“Wow,” he says, suitably impressed. “That was much less complicated than I’d anticipated.”

“Teach you to doubt me,” Charles says, wagging an admonishing finger.

The doctor, in typical fashion, has little to add to the situation. She checks in briefly, runs through his chart with him and asks if he has any questions. Charles does not, so she makes her exit as quickly as she'd come, promising as she goes that technician will be along shortly for the part they’ve all been waiting for.

“What do you think?” Charles asks Angel when they’re alone again. “Not so terrifying as you’d thought, right?”

Angel shrugs coolly, not nearly so open today as to admit she might be frightened by anything. “Seems like a waste of time and money,” she says, which isn’t much of an answer to the question.

“If you’re perfectly healthy, then yes,” Charles agrees. “But if you’re suffering complications, it’s better to catch them early. Even if nothing ends up being wrong, better safe than sorry, especially when little ones are involved.”

“I guess,” Angel says.

“Excellent,” Charles says. “I’ve made you an appointment for next week.”

“Wait a minute-” Angel starts, probably about to protest at the threat of Charles taking over her life, but that’s when the technician comes in, and the conversation gets put on hold.

The technician gets Charles lubed up and then prods at him for a while. Charles watches the screen, suddenly more anxious than he thought he would be. There’s no need, really – he knows the little girl is fine. But still his stomach clenches from nerves as the technician gets screen into focus.

And there she is – Charles’s little Häschen. Sucking her thumb, too, by the look of things, and Charles feels choked up all of a sudden. His beautiful little girl, with her daddy’s power and all her papa’s love. He blinks back tears.

“I apologize,” he says, bringing a hand up to wipe at his eyes. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“Happens all the time,” the tech says easily, moving the wand slowly. “Only one baby, that's good. Amniotic fluid looks normal. Vertex presentation. Heart function looks fine. Did you want to know the sex?”

“No, no. That’s quite alright,” Charles says absently. He’s distracted by the feel of the child waking up, probably roused by all the commotion. He wraps his thoughts around hers and is able to feel firsthand the instinctual way her power wells up from within. He feels the slow rise of electric current – it’s weak and unfocused, but there’s potential there.

Then the technician presses down particularly hard and several things happen in succession: Charles winces, the girl flings out an arm in instinctual irritation, and the ultrasound machine sparks and the screen goes dark.

“Oh, shit!” the tech says, half rising from his seat. “What the hell was that?”

Oh dear, Charles thinks, but doesn’t say. He meets Hank’s eyes, which are wide in understanding. Charles hasn’t told him, hasn’t told anyone, about the girl’s power, but Hank is intelligent enough to make the correct inference.

“Well, I think that’s quite enough,” Charles says quickly, wanting to get out of here before they bring another machine in and that one gets fried, too. He brings a finger to his temple. “We’re done here, aren’t we?”

The technician agrees, and gets Charles cleaned up. It’s a pity they didn’t get any pictures, but there’s always next time. And hopefully by then, Erik will be present, and surely he’ll be able to hold the child’s power back for long enough to have a quick scan.

That is, of course, if Erik ever stops being mad that Charles kept the pregnancy from him for so long.

XXXXX

“Hello, love,” Charles says when Erik calls that night. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Erik says brusquely. “How much do you know about menstruation?”

“Menstruation?” Charles repeats, puzzled. “Er, on a scale of one to ten? Perhaps an eight.” That is, he knows the biology behind it and the theories on handling it, but he’s never personally inserted a tampon or changed a blood-soaked sanitary napkin.

“Are you familiar with menstrual cups?”

“Oh!” Charles says, suddenly excited, because in fact he is familiar with them and he’s quite the fan. “Yes, of course! The green option, isn’t it? And economically preferable, once the high initial cost has been overcome.”

“Yes,” Erik says, and his voice sounds grumpy. “I had noticed the cost. It’s unreasonable.”

“Only because you’re cheap, dear,” Charles says easily. “But anyway, why are you buying a menstrual cup? Do you have a teenaged mistress hidden somewhere you’re not telling me about?”

Erik says nothing.

Charles frowns.

“Erik,” he says carefully, “what’s going on with you? You don’t actually have a teenage girl in the wings, right?”

“I’m not having an affair,” Erik says coldly.

“No,” Charles agrees. “I didn’t seriously think you were. But you’re up to something.”

Erik sighs. After a moment, he says, “Perhaps I am.”

Charles isn’t exactly surprised. Erik’s never exactly been subtle. Quiet, yes. Secretive, perhaps. Subtle, definitely not. Still, it isn’t exactly fair to condemn Erik for not telling the entire truth when Charles has been doing the same. And maybe if Charles shares his secret, Erik will do the same. It’s like he’s always telling Hank and Alex: communication is the key to a good relationship.

“I should tell you something, Erik,” he says carefully. “It’s not bad news, but you’re not going to be happy with me.”

“Nor you with me,” Erik returns. “Go on.”

“It’s like this,” Charles starts, but his words are almost immediately drown by a commotion on the other end.

“Damn,” Erik cuts in suddenly, voice rough and almost frightened. “I have to go.”

“What?” Charles asks suddenly. Damn Erik for not being close enough to sense. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?”

“I have to go,” Erik says again. “I love you. I’ll call when I can.”

And then he hangs up.

“Well fuck,” Charles says after a moment, bringing his phone slowly away from his ear to stare at it. _Call ended_ , it tells him.

What can that have been about? Is Erik in some sort of danger? Is that his secret, that he’s gotten himself into trouble? But what can he possibly have gotten mixed-up in during the time they’ve been apart. It’s only been a few months!

Charles bites his lip. God, it’s been _months_. So much could have changed in that time. So much _has_ changed in that time. Erik… he could be in real trouble.

With a cold spike of dread in his stomach, Charles hits redial and brings the phone back to his ear. It rings and rings and finally lands in Erik’s automated voice message.

Well. Fuck.


	23. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay an update at last!! About time, too, right?
> 
> I would call this chapter 'the calm before the storm.'
> 
> Warning for period-y things, as you would probably expect after the end of last chapter.

Erik and Ororo fall into a rhythm together over their first few days together. They wake and dress, then eat gas-station breakfast: coffee for him, boxed juice for her, and breakfast burritos, powdered donuts, or sometimes pre-made breakfast sandwiches (though she notices very quickly that he won’t touch the ones with meat in them and, without him even saying anything, she starts to avoid those, as well). They travel until lunchtime (roadside diner or truck stop fare), after which they find somewhere to stretch their legs (a mall, a public park, an upscale neighborhood still decked out for Halloween, a fall festival where he has to keep paying for things she’s inexpertly shoplifted – and they’ll need to have a talk about that bad habit sooner or later). Eventually they return to the car and travel until late evening (never on a straight course, never on one road for too long), when Erik finds them a cheap motel. They have dinner (local takeout) and then go to bed (separately, though if Ororo wakes in the night, she always climbs onto Erik’s bed and into his arms).

It’s no life for a child, and Erik knows it. He does what he can to make it more tolerable for her. He buys her a puzzle book (and then buys her a _different type_ of puzzle book when she hates the first one). He stops as frequently as she asks for bathroom and snack breaks. He’s even consented to sing to along to the radio for her amusement (which he’s half-convinced she requests solely because she knows it irritates him). But even still, he knows he can’t make up for this half-life he’s forcing her to live. She needs room to run and play. She needs fruits and vegetables and real farm-raised meat in her diet. She needs a bed to call her own, and a place to feel safe. She didn’t have any of those things on the streets (and probably not in her foster home, either), and he wants to give them to her now. But he can’t, and the worry over that never goes entirely away.

In an ideal world, he would give her the home she deserves, a home of the type she hasn’t had since her parents died. He would introduce her to Charles and David, and they would all get to know each other slowly, organically. Nothing would be forced and nothing would be rushed because there would be no band of terrorists after any of them. Charles would tutor her until she was up to speed enough to start middle school, and Erik would walk with her to the park when she couldn’t stand to look at another worksheet. They’d take David with them and they’d leave Charles at home to catch up on his real work, and David wouldn’t cry at being left alone just with Erik. Or if he did cry, Erik would power through it without overreacting and David would sense that his father isn’t half as scary as he seems. After their walk, Erik would take the children home and Charles would be there in the kitchen, somehow managing to burn hot chocolate. He’d let Erik distract him with a kiss while Ororo cleans up the mess, and then later, after the children have gone to bed, he’d let Erik steal more than a kiss.

It’s a lovely dream, and Erik basks in the warmth of it. It’s the life he would create for himself if he had the choice. But sooner or later, he always remembers that it’s only a dream, and who knows if they’ll even come out of this in any shape to make it happen. But oh, Erik is so very good at fanaticizing about the things he can’t have.

“Are you sad to be away from your family?” Ororo asks at lunch a few days after they start their journey east.

“Yes,” Erik tells her honestly. She’s no doubt noticed how wistful he gets after his phone conversations with Charles. “But it’s better with you here than it was before.”

“Where did they go?” she presses. “Why are you not with them?”

Erik sighs, pondering how to answer the question. He doesn’t want to tell her the mess he’s made of his life, but he won’t lie to her, either.

“We fought, my husband and I. He thought I was too much of a danger to be around the baby. So he left.”

Ororo looks at him with dark, pensive eyes. She says, “You are not the type of man who would hurt a child. I’ve met that type of man. You are not him.”

Erik swallows hard, oddly touched. He doesn’t want to argue with her on this. He wants very desperately to believe she’s right. But… “I could be,” he says.

“No.” Ororo shakes her head. “You saved me. You would not hurt me.”

Stockholm syndrome, Erik thinks warily, but he clings to her words for hours afterward, praying she’s not wrong.

XXXXX

Erik still gets daily pictures of the baby from Charles: David with his hands pressed against a floor vent, David with his face covered in baby food, David chewing on his own feet. He sometimes gets videos: David making grabby motions for someone’s puppy, David skootching himself along the carpet because he’s not quite to crawling yet, David and Charles playing peekaboo.

It’s all very overwhelming. David is getting so big and he’s on his way to reaching milestones Erik very much doesn’t want to miss. But what can he do? Erik can’t be with David now, even if he knew where his family is hiding. Erik can’t endanger them by taking Ororo to them, and he can’t endanger Ororo by staying in any one place for more than a night. The path he’s currently on is the only option he has.

That doesn’t mean he has to like it. He doesn’t mind having the girl along, but his chest aches every time he remembers what he’s giving up with David by being with her. He can’t stand the thought that he’s somehow managed to become closer with this girl he just met than he is with his own son. Yet he’s becoming very fond of Ororo, more so for every day he spends with her, and he doesn’t know how to handle that. He’s being… emotionally unfaithful to his son. 

Gott. Something is terribly wrong with him. First he’s the world’s worst father, and then he manages to improve but in the wrong direction. Erik still misses his boy, his Mäuschen, but even for all the improvements he’s been making in himself, he still feels like there’s no hope. How will he ever explain to Charles that he’s managed to fall for a child not his own? How can Charles ever forgive him for that?

Erik doesn’t know. 

What he does know is that he can’t take his frustration and fear out on the girl. She needs someone solid in her life, someone who has her best interests at heart. Erik doesn’t know for sure he can be that person, but he can’t _not_ do his best by her - not when he’s her only hope.

XXXXX

“You know German,” Erik starts one night after they’ve checked into their motel. He hasn’t heard her speak the language, but he remembers their first night together and the way she’d addressed him after he’d called her Schnecke. “How?”

Ororo looks up at him from where she’s studying her face in the bedside mirror. Erik doesn’t know what she’s looking for and he hasn’t the courage to ask.

“I learned when we were in Egypt,” she says. “Before.”

Before. There’s a loaded word if Erik’s ever heard one. _Before_ her parents died. _Before_ her world fell apart. _Before_ she realized just how hard life can be.

Something about her expression compels Erik to say, “My parents brought me here as a child. From Germany. Well, Britain, and before that we were in France. But Germany originally.”

“What happened to them?” Ororo asks. The twisting of her mouth tells him she remembers his words about being in foster care himself, and she realizes what that must mean for his parents.

“They died,” Erik says simply. “My father of heart failure when I was thirteen, and my mother two years later.”

Ororo looks down at her hands, which are wringing together in her lap. “My parents are dead, too,” she tells him, though of course he already knows. “I heard gunshots and they… they were both on the ground. Then a storm came up out of nowhere and… I ran.”

She looks up at him, eyes full of tears. “I should not have run,” she chokes out. “I should have stayed and fought.”

“No,” Erik tells her. “No. You did the right thing. Your powers are meant to protect you. They’re not meant for fighting.” He thinks about what Charles would say: children should not be soldiers. And with this little girl in front of him, Erik can’t help but to agree. He knows how it feels to take a man’s life into his own hands, and he would not have that terrible weight pressing down upon this child. On any child.

He has no other words to console her, so instead he holds out an arm in invitation. He wishes he were better at comfort. This is why he needs Charles – now there’s a man who gives a solid hug. Ororo doesn’t seem to notice Erik’s lack of expertise; she buries her face in his neck and clings.

Erik pats her back, feeling useless. Useless and sad. But not angry, and that’s something.

XXXXX

Wednesday morning, Ororo spends an indecent amount of time in the bathroom. While he’s waiting for her, Erik tries to do the math in his head. How long will it take for the Brotherhood to lose interest in chasing them? How long will Erik have to go before it’s safe to stage a sneak attack against them?

The trouble is, Erik doesn’t honestly know enough about terrorist cells to make a specific guess. His search for Sebastian Shaw had led him to join the group as a teenager, true, but he certainly hadn’t been high enough on their radar to merit an invitation to planning sessions. He’d showed up for meetings, listened to speeches and searched the crowd for the face of his enemy or for anyone who might be able to give him a clue on Shaw’s location. 

The most noteworthy information he’d garnered during that sojourn into terrorism had been that the leadership of the group changes hands every few months, at which point the deposed leader’s goals get pushed to the backburner or dismissed entirely. Wyngarde, the Mastermind, has been the head of the group for at least the month that Raven’s been attending their meetings. That means he can’t have that much time left until the crowd rises up against his ineffectiveness and overthrows him. Perhaps this process will even be sped up by the loss of Ororo to a few random spies in the group. Wyngarde’s days are numbered. He’s got months left, maybe even less.

Even still, Erik dreads the thought of keeping this charade of a life up for the next few months. He hasn’t been on the road this much since his and Charles’s first road trip together, and at least then he’d had adult companionship. Not that Erik is disparaging Ororo’s company, but Erik and Charles had mainly entertained themselves and released stress through sexual activity, which is certainly not an option here. The best he can hope for is Charles calling for more phone sex, and even then he’ll have to make damn sure Ororo’s asleep first. 

But those really aren’t thoughts he ought to be having when he’s waiting for Ororo to come out of the bathroom so they can spend the next six hours in a car  
together.

Losing his slender reserve of patience, Erik knocks roughly on the bathroom door.

“What are you doing in there?” he asks. Probably she’s having digestive issues after all the junk they’ve been eating this past week, but if that’s the case it’s better he knows the truth, so they can stop at a drugstore and buy something to ease the problem.

“I’m coming,” Ororo snaps, voice muffled through the door. “Go away.”

Erik scowls and doesn’t go far. 

When Ororo finally emerges, she’s pale and irritable. Her iron levels seem a little… _off_ somehow, but not dangerously so, and she looks in no mood to answer his questions about it. Not that he would know what to ask, anyway – he’s no doctor. 

So instead of asking, Erik just hurries her along through the packing of her meager belongings. She’s none too pleased with him for it, but she doesn’t argue, either.

Ororo sulks for the most of the morning after that. When she’s not moodily staring out the window, she alternates between glaring at Erik and shifting restlessly in her seat. She keeps one hand clenched in a fist in front of her stomach as though it pains her, which Erik takes as further indication that she is, in fact, suffering from indigestion. When they stop for lunch, he’ll definitely need to find a pharmacy.

Around midday, when Erik can’t take the oppressive silence between them any longer, he starts looking out for a promising exit. When he finds one, into what appears to be a small city, he takes it without question. Ororo says nothing, but her gaze out the window becomes more fixed. She seems to be studying the business they pass, though whether it’s out of boredom or in search of something specific, he couldn’t say. Times like these he misses having a telepath by his side. It’s very convenient to be able to know what people are thinking without having to actually ask them.

They pass a few restaurants, as well as a mall. Erik keeps his eyes peeled for a Walgreens or Rite Aid. After maybe half a mile of city traffic, he finally spots one, but before he can move them in that direction, Ororo gasps out loud and says, “Take me to there.”

Erik frowns at her, not quite happy with how demanding she’s been all day. He’s sure it can’t be healthy to give in to a child’s demands like this. They’ll grow up spoiled and incapable, and that’s certainly not what he wants for her. But then he sees she’s pointing up the street to a book store, and he can’t quite bring himself to deny her this particular request. Perhaps it’s Charles’s influence, but Erik has a pervasive desire to encourage childhood literacy.

Still, he can’t let her think she’s in charge here. Bodily autonomy is one thing and she’s welcome to it, but that doesn’t mean she should get whatever she wants. She won’t get away with being rude on his watch (though Charles would probably laugh and call him a hypocrite for that, and it’s true Erik is rather a demanding character himself, which he only really gets away with it by citing cultural differences).

“Please,” he prompts, giving her the side-eye.

Ororo scowls, but acquiesces. “Please,” she says, clearly back to being sulky.

Erik nods approvingly and takes them to the book store.

It’s the same chain store from which he inadvertently obtained that Christian self-help book a few weeks (and a lifetime) ago. Erik doesn’t particularly care for chain stores (he likes to shop local, which again is down to Charles’s damn liberal influence), but he’ll admit they make for easy shopping. He takes Ororo’s hand as they cross the parking lot to the entrance. She lets him do it without complaint, despite the tension between them today. She’s probably too old to be looked after in this manner, but it’s become habit for them now. She hasn’t tried to escape since that first day (and he doesn’t honestly think she will, at this point) but he still fears for her safety and likes to keep her close.

Once they’re inside the blessedly warm store, Ororo shakes him off. Erik lets her do it, confident that as long as she stays within the building, he’ll be able to sense the knife she still keeps in her pocket. That doesn’t stop him from keeping an eye on her as she browses, however. Her first stop is the teen fiction section, where she idly pokes about the dark-colored novels. Erik watches her for a moment more before he realizes he’s got an audience; a mother with two small sons hanging on her coattails is giving him a look of the kind Erik has feared from the beginning and by now has had plenty of opportunity to experience.

“Have you a problem?” Erik asks her, daring her to agree that she does.

The woman says nothing, just grabs her children firmly and marches them away. Erik scowls at her retreating back, wishing she would have actually said something. After all the tension this morning, part of him is itching for a fight. 

Though… a fuck would also work – he’s not picky.

When Erik looks back at the teen fiction section, he sees a handful of young people, but none of them have dark skin and white hair. His heart skips a beat painfully as he whirls around, trying to find Ororo. Luckily, she hasn’t gone far, just a few yards away into the healthy living section. Erik lets out a shaky breath, pulse still hammering. Damn, that had been close. He could have lost her there.

Rationally, he knows he’s being ridiculous. She’s perfectly safe. Even with the Brotherhood on the lookout, the two of them haven’t been in this city long enough to have attracted any attention. Ororo hasn’t caused any storms in days and even if the Brotherhood spotted that one in Colorado, there’s no way anyone would have been able to follow Erik and Ororo’s crisscrossing progress this far east. Which means Erik’s just playing the role of the overprotective parent, the same way he hates to admit he does for David (though with Ororo it’s taken on new forms – he still worries about food for her, but as she’s quite a bit more mobile than David is, he also worries about her wandering). The worrying for her might have made him angry a few months ago, but now all he feels is light irritation with himself for being so clingy.

Well. That’s enough of that. No point in dwelling. Ororo will be fine, and anyway, he can sense her; he doesn’t need her in his field of vision. He takes a deep, fortifying breath and makes himself turn away toward the classical literature section, where he calms his nerves by browsing titles. He idly thumbs through a copy of Moby Dick, but he soon becomes painfully aware of the parallels to his own life, so he sets that one back down quickly. Dickens, Austen, Tolstoy, Wilde, even Frank Herbert – nothing Erik’s particularly interested in reading. He thinks he probably should just give it up and go browse the baby’s section for a present for David.

That’s when he sees it: a garish orange-colored book with a familiar title. He reaches for it without thought.

 _King Solomon’s Mines, with Introduction and Notes_. Erik doesn’t know why he’s so surprised to see it – of course this would be in with the classics. But somehow he _is_ surprised, and a little warmed. The copy he’s holding now is nothing like the long-lost version he and Charles toted across the country on that first road trip. Still, as Erik thumbs through the pages, he can’t help but remember the first time he’d heard the words.

It was summer then and sweltering. They’d been on the road for months at that point, following lead after lead that hadn’t quite panned out. With Charles’s telepathy and money, though, they were slowly getting closer to finding the man who ruined Erik’s life (and making him pay, though neither of them had realized then what that would entail). During the hot nights, they took refuge in roadside motels, where they occupied themselves with reading secondhand novels and having sex. Sometimes the two weren’t entirely separate pursuits. Erik can vividly recall the two of them lying naked on a motel comforter – satiated and sweaty but somehow still restless – with Charles putting voice to stupid, bloody Allan Quartermain’s African adventures. Erik had been lying on his stomach, head pillowed on one arm, enjoying the way Charles’s posh voice kept breaking as Erik traced a line of drying cum up Charles’s inner thigh. And then Erik had decided he may as well take it back to the source and pushed three fingers into Charles’s still-wet hole. Needless to say, they hadn’t finished the book that night.

Those were the days, weren’t they – both of them young and in love and perpetually aroused. But on the other hand, Erik was in a lot worse shape then, emotionally-speaking (and what Charles saw in him then, he’ll never know). He’s definitely in a better position to be in a relationship now than he ever was before, even if he no longer has the stamina to go at it multiple times in a row the way he and Charles did when they first met. To be fair, he’s ten years older and also a father.

And speaking of children, Erik had better check up on the one in his charge. On a whim, he takes the Haggard with him.

Ororo is not pleased to see Erik, which is becoming something of a theme for them today. Erik doesn’t know what he’s done lately to aggravate her – besides kidnapping her, obviously. But it’s been nearly a week since that incident, and while that’s not a lot of time in the grand scheme of things, it seems to be enough time for her to have gotten over the worst of her completely justified anger with him. Erik doesn’t think he would have forgiven something of that nature in such a short amount of time, but probably she’s had to become very adaptable, living the life she does. Or its Stockholm Syndrome. One of those things.

Gott, he’s going to hell.

Either way, Erik lets her be for now and retires to the children’s section to pick up a few things for David. He can’t let Charles have all the fun of watching their son learn to love books, after all. If he let Charles pick all the books, it would end up being a collection of things like _We Came to America_ or _Anna & Solomon_ or apparently _Five Little Gefiltes_. And while Erik certainly isn’t opposed to his son learning from an early age about immigration or his cultural connection to Judaism, there comes a point where books need to be fun instead of educational. The truth is, Mother Goose and Pooh Bear did Erik just fine when he was a child (though if he told Charles this, Charles would probably nod seriously and then find a copy of Pooh Bear in Yiddish – which Erik _doesn’t even speak_ ).

So Erik picks a few picture books he thinks David might like – about trains and puppies and princesses. Then he checks his watch, grimaces at the time, and goes to hurry Ororo along.

XXXXX

Their next stop is the drug store, because Erik isn’t going to put up with another day of Ororo’s constipated sulkiness. They part ways at the door, Erik toward the Health and Medicine aisle and Ororo off in the opposite direction. Erik keeps his senses trained on her even as he reads the boxes for probiotics and enzymes and antacids. It would be easier, he thinks, if he had more of an idea on what’s actually wrong with her. He would ask, but he doesn’t expect she’ll have an honest answer for him. She’s used to taking care of herself, and he respects that. It wasn’t all that long ago he felt the same way. But that was before Charles, before _family_ , and now he doesn’t honestly know how to get by without them. He’s become frighteningly dependent on his family, but even though the thought should make him want to turn and run, all it really does these days is make him yearn for a good cuddle. He’s getting soft, no doubt about that.

He decides after a few minutes of careful reading that some chewable Pepto-Bismol will take care of the immediate concerns, and as a long-term solution, a bottle of probiotic gummies can’t hurt. He figures he should probably get some ginger ale, as well. Tea would probably work better, but they’re not exactly in a position to own a kettle, so soda will have to do.

After a detour to the soda aisle, Erik makes his way to the front of the store, where he can feel Ororo’s presence. He looks around for her as he’s putting his purchases on the counter. She’s skulking by the door, he sees, and she’s looking nervous and guilty.

Well, that can’t mean anything good.

“Do you have anything that needs bought?” Erik asks her.

Ororo shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly, but her arms are crossed over her chest and her coat has an odd bulge.

Erik sighs.

“Then what do you have under your shirt?” he asks as calmly as he can manage. It’s this sort of behavior that’s going to get her in trouble someday. She’s not even that sneaky about it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, glaring at him. “I have nothing.”

Then her eyes skitter to the door like she’s going to make a run for it. Erik sighs again. He waves a hand at the metal of door, which seals shut.

“Um,” the shop clerk says nervously.

Erik flicks her a glance.

“I’ll put it back in a moment,” he assures her. Then to Ororo he says, “You. Come here.”

Ororo makes no move, so Erik points (what he hopes is) a stern finger in her direction. “Now,” he adds.

She still doesn’t move, so Erik reaches out for the zippers and buckles on her clothes and slowly draws her toward him. Ororo flails, and the hair on Erik’s arms stands up in the way he knows means a storm is coming. He can’t let that happen, so he takes two steps forward to meet her.

When they’re face to face, he crouches down to be on her level. He takes her hands in his and makes deliberate eye contact.

“Don’t,” he tells her softly. “There’s no need for that. I won’t hurt you. And you know what’s at stake if you cause a storm.”

Ororo looks at him helplessly, her dark eyes suddenly huge and damp. She’s still not used to people speaking calmly do her. She’s always expecting to be shouted at. But Erik’s heard his fair share of shouting, and he knows it will only make her more stubborn.

“You told me you don’t think I would hurt you,” he goes on, just as softly. “Do you still believe that?”

There’s a long moment where she doesn’t answer and Erik thinks maybe he’ll have to try some other way to get through to her. But then slowly her chin dips in a nod.

“Good,” Erik says, and he gives her a smile – not the one with teeth that scares people, but a soft one that he thinks he must have learned for David’s sake. “I want us to be able to trust one another. If you have something you need, come to me. I won’t refuse you.”

He lets that sink in for a moment, then asks, “Is there something you need right now?”

Ororo breaks eye contact to look down at her feet.

“It is… expensive,” she whispers, and Erik’s chest aches for her because he knows that struggle all too well. Children should not have to worry about money. It isn’t right.

“We’ll make a deal,” he tells her, hitting suddenly upon an idea. “You have something I want, and I have something you want. We’ll trade.”

Ororo glances up at him warily. “What do you want?”

“No more stealing,” he tells her firmly. “For as long as we’re together. If you want something, ask. I may not always say yes, but there are no consequences for asking. And if it’s something you need, I won’t refuse. If you agree to this, I’ll buy whatever you want today. Is it a deal?”

She considers for a moment, then says, “Okay.”

“Good,” Erik says, and smiles at her again.

He holds out his hand, and she slowly unzips her jacket. The box inside is purple and pink and decorated with flowers. Menstrual cup, it says, and Erik looks back at Ororo, puzzled.

“Are you old enough for this?”

Ororo makes a face like she doesn’t appreciate him questioning her age.

“The book at the store said all ages,” she tells him smartly.

Erik thinks through this response and realizes she must have been planning this a while. She’d tricked him in the bookstore by making him think she was interested in teen fiction, when in reality she was conducting covert research about her body. Good thing, too, because Erik is not at all equipped to deal with young women in this fashion.

Still… “Ten seems a bit young,” he tells carefully.

“I am eleven,” she snaps. “I will be twelve in four months!”

All Erik can think to say to that is, “I see.” He doesn’t know if that makes it better or not. He’ll have to take her word on this.

It does, at least, explain the stomach pain. But probably that means the things Erik’s picked out won’t work, after all. They’re going to have to regroup. Probably he’s going to have to enlist the aid of the female pharmacist.

“All right,” he says, and stands. He waves his hand at the door, which unseals itself at once. The store clerk, he sees, is still watching them, looking torn between nervousness and genuine concern for the girl. Erik supposes that means he hasn’t botched this operation too badly.

To Ororo, Erik says, “Let’s get a second opinion about this.”

He offers her his hand again. She takes it.

XXXXX

Along with the menstrual cup, they also end up buying a box of pads – with wings, because the pharmacist they end up asking for help stands by those. The woman also recommends Midol, so they buy some of that, as well.

They make use of the pads right away, but after some discussion about first time use of menstrual cups, Ororo determines that she’d rather wait until they’re somewhere private to test it out. Erik agrees that’s a good idea. This whole thing seems complicated, and he can’t imagine trying to figure it out in a public bathroom.

Later that night, once they’re checked into their motel, Ororo takes herself into the bathroom with the instructions in one hand and the cup in the other. Erik wants to offer his help, but he thinks he’d probably just make it worse. He doesn’t know anything about girls’ bits – he can honestly say he’s never seen any up close. He’s not opposed, necessarily, to lending a hand, but if she doesn’t want his help, he won’t impose it on her. She knows he’s here if she needs him.

That doesn’t stop him from worrying about the whole thing, though. She’s only a little girl, after all, and he wants to make this easy on her.

On a whim, he calls Charles. He doesn’t think Charles has ever been intimate with a woman, either, but he’s got a sister, at least, and surely something like this has come up in at least one of those child development classes he took in graduate school.

“Hello, love,” Charles says cheerily when he picks up. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Erik says, and gets right to the point. “How much do you know about menstruation?”

Charles hmms and tells him he has perhaps an eight out of ten on the knowledge scale. Which seems quite ridiculously high for a gay man, but this could prove to be quite useful.

“Are you familiar with menstrual cups?” Erik asks.

“Oh!” Charles says, sounding unreasonably excited. Erik’s married a weirdo, no doubt about that. “Yes, of course! The green option, isn’t it? And economically preferable, once the high initial cost has been overcome.”

And oh yes, Erik had noticed the cost. He says as much to Charles. Ororo wasn’t lying when she said it was expensive. But he’d caught a glance at the tampon boxes and they’d been quite pricy, too. Plus, tampons apparently aren’t recommended for overnight use, which would be a problem.

Charles calls him cheap, which isn’t quite the truth, but it isn’t far off, either. Spending excessive money makes Erik’s palms sweat and his stomach ache. But when it’s for his family, he puts up with it.

Then Charles asks, “But anyway, why are you buying a menstrual cup? Do you have a teenaged mistress hidden somewhere you’re not telling me about?”

Erik feels like he’s been struck.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is that _honestly_ what Charles thinks of him? God, who the hell does Charles think he is, anyway? Has he forgotten that _he’s_ the one who left?

Erik takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

No, he thinks. It has to be a joke. An awful, unfunny joke, but maybe Charles isn’t thinking, hasn’t realized just how much the possibility scares Erik.

“Erik,” Charles says suddenly, voice serious and maybe a little worried. “What’s going on with you? You don’t actually have a teenage girl in the wings, right?”

“I’m not having an affair,” Erik manages. Gott. This is such a mess. Does Charles not trust him? After all this, does he really think Erik would _cheat_?

But why not, right? Erik’s fucked up everything else about their relationship, so why not this as well?

It makes him want to punch something.

He doesn’t. Instead, he stretches his sense out to feel the metal musket balls he still carries around in his coat pocket. He hasn’t needed them in a while, but he needs them now. He calls them to his hand and the touch of metal to his skin grounds him. He manages to take another deep breath. It clears his head a bit.

Charles says, “No. I didn’t seriously think you were.” 

And Erik breathes a sigh of relief, because it _had_ been a joke after all. Charles is still an asshole for making it, but this means he must still trust Erik, even after everything. And perhaps Erik really doesn’t deserve that trust, not when he can’t even control his own anger. But he’s glad for it.

“You’re up to something,” Charles goes on, and hell if Erik can argue with that. It’s probably time to come clean about Ororo and the Brotherhood and everything else. He never meant to keep this a secret, he just… doesn’t want Charles to be angry with him.

“Perhaps I am,” Erik agrees. But where to start on what needs said?

Charles hums thoughtfully and says, “I should tell you something, Erik.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject and Erik thinks maybe Charles is giving him an out. He has no idea what this might be about – something about David, perhaps, or something about Charles’s new life. But Charles doesn’t sound nervous, only resigned.

“It’s not bad news,” Charles assures him, which is comforting, “but you’re going not going to be happy with me.”

“Nor you with me,” Erik admits, holding tight to the metal in his hand. Very likely, this isn’t going to end well.

Charles starts to say something else, but Erik can’t hear him over a shattering crash and startled shout from the bathroom.

“Damn,” Erik says, because that can’t be anything good. “I have to go!”

He manages to tell Charles he loves him and will call later, then he hangs up and rushes over to pound on the bathroom door.

“Are you alright in there?” he calls, voice not as calm as it maybe should be.

There’s a long, nerve-wracking silence. At last, Ororo says, “The mirror fell.”

“Have you been cut?” Erik demands.

“No.”

A relieved and maybe slightly hysterical laugh forces its way out of Erik. 

God, that could have been so bad.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

Ororo hesitates, then agrees.

The door is locked, but of course that’s no obstacle for Erik.

The first thing he sees when he opens the door is a whole lot of glass. Glass with a metal backing it though and a weak magnetic charge, so it should be an easy fix. The second thing he sees is Ororo’s bloody hands. His heart thuds painfully for half a moment as he thinks wildly that she must have lied about being cut. But then he remembers what she’s been doing in here and forces himself back to calmness. Whatever other troubles she’s having, she isn’t injured.

“Perhaps,” he says carefully, “we ought to turn to the internet for this endeavor.” After all, there have to be videos out there somewhere with advice for girls attempting this very process.

Ororo agrees that it couldn’t hurt at this point, and Erik goes to get his phone. She washes her hands, puts on pants, and together they sit down for a viewing of some educational videos.

Later, after they’ve figured out the problem and implemented the solution, they put themselves to bed. As Ororo is lying on her bed cuddling her stuffed duck, Erik realizes he’s got a missed call from Charles. No message, though, which means it can’t have been too much of an emergency. Probably he was just cross that Erik hung up so abruptly. Still, maybe it’s better this way: Erik will have more time to figure out how he’s going to tell Charles about Ororo.

Still, just in case Charles is worrying, Erik texts him that everything is alright and they’ll talk tomorrow.

He gets back a terse “Fine.”

And that… that can’t be good.

XXXXX

Ororo is in a much better mood the next morning, and that’s good, because Erik already has Charles’s disapproval hanging over his head; he doesn’t need two people mad at him right now. While she’s in the bathroom brushing her teeth, Erik takes the opportunity to do something he’s been putting off: he calls Raven.

“Nice of you to call,” Raven says sardonically in lieu of a greeting. “I was starting to worry you’d forgotten about us.”

“Radio silence is safest,” Erik tells her.

“Uh huh,” she says. “And I’ll just bet that’s stopped you from calling my brother every night, right?”

Erik says nothing to that.

“Did you at least tell him what’s going on?” she asks. Erik wishes he could say something to wipe the doubt out of her voice, but he can’t. Still he says nothing.

Raven sighs and says, “Look. I’m glad you’re calling to check in, don’t get me wrong. But I’m kind of busy here, so let’s make this quick.”

“How are things on your end?” Erik asks.

“Sent in the draft of the article,” she tells him. “Waiting to hear back from my editor. Shouldn’t be too long now. If they decide it’s good to go to print, it’ll be in the next issue. Then we can send in an anonymous tip to the right people.”

“Right,” Erik says, mindful that she isn’t clued in to his alternative plan, the one about handling things himself once the furor has died down. “Good. And you? Are you safe?”

“We’re fine,” Raven tells him, voice taking on a soft edge as she apparently remembers he’s not only her co-conspirator in this, but also someone who cares about her. They’re family, the two of them.

“We’re in Italy,” she says, and Erik would worry about unsecure lines and wiretapping, but probably that’s going over the line from worry into paranoia. And besides, she’s right: it would be hypocritical of him to call anyone else out on the security of their communication.

“How’s the kid?” she asks. “She still trying to electrocute you?”

“She’s fine,” Erik says. “She’s calmed down. We’re… getting along well.”

“Yeah?” Raven says. “I’m glad. I always sort of thought you would make a good father. I’m glad it’s working out for you.”

“I’m not her father,” Erik says at once. Ororo is not his to keep. He might be falling for her like crazy, but that doesn’t make him her father. He won’t get to keep her at the end of this, and he has to remember that. Besides, there’s David to consider, and with the way Erik loves that boy, how could he ever abandon him like that?

“Erik,” Raven says, and her voice is dry again, like she’s almost certainly rolling her eyes at him. “Don’t be an idiot.”

But if Erik knew how to do that, he wouldn’t be in this mess, would he?

XXXXX

By the time Ororo comes back into the main room, Erik has gotten Raven off the phone and is scrolling through is contact numbers.

“I’ll be a minute,” he tells her. “I have one more call to make.”

Finally, he finds the one labeled ‘work’ and hits call. It rings twice and then a secretary picks up. He asks to be directed to his manager, and she puts him on hold.

While he’s waiting, Erik takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. This is really it: he’s going to do the thing he’s known he must since he found Ororo. He’s at the end of his vacation now, his four weeks are up, but he can’t go back to New York with the girl in tow – not when all of the mutants in the city are on the lookout for her. He can’t go back, and so he has to quit his job.

The job itself doesn’t worry Erik. He enjoys his work but it’s not what makes him happy, and anyway, he’s become more and more disillusioned with the industry lately. He wants to do something that matters, and he doesn’t think he’ll accomplish that with this engineering firm.

Erik's also not particularly worried about the (at this point) elusive search for Charles's IP address. That's the reason he'd had at the beginning of this journey for keeping his job, but at this point, he's so close to finding Charles he can almost taste it. He doesn't need to be sneaky about it any longer. One of these days, Charles will tell him where he is, and then when the danger has passed, Erik will go to him.

That doesn’t mean he’s not nervous about this decision. This is the proverbial fork in the road. Once he does this, there’s no going back. All of his hopes about getting his family back and picking up where they left off are gone now. No matter what happens after this, they’ll never be what they were before.

But it’s for the best, and Erik knows it. This is the right move: for himself, for the girl, and for Charles and David. This is the best decision for his family. And there’s nothing Erik would not do for his family.


	24. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time I mentioned [the mouse and the elephant and the duck](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYjNpQyrRms)? Well, it's probably pretty obvious by now the person I intended to be the duck. But it turns out there's also a [bunny character](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIiBbUkRckE&index=1&list=PLdALHC9AwBKbvxR6pebIjNPi5kRyaRSFh)! I'm only a sporadic watcher, mind, so was unaware of this fact. And since I picked the pet name Haschen completely out of a hat (rabbit humor), I'm amazed. Erik still doesn't get his own animal character, but I assume he's the one holding the camera and shaking his head at how nuts his family is.
> 
>  
> 
> Also: you want one of their secrets to be revealed? You've got it!

Charles spends Thursday morning sulking. Which is perfectly acceptable, because he’s nearly six months pregnant and his husband is an absolute bastard. Erik hadn’t even had the decency to call Charles back after hanging up on him so abruptly the night before. All he got was a text hours later telling him nothing was seriously wrong.

Well, if nothing is seriously wrong, then why the hell had Erik hung-up in the first place? Charles had been worried, damn it, and then Erik has the bloody gall to go and tell him it’s not a big deal. All that, and just when Charles was about to tell him about his impending fatherhood (again).

In hindsight, Charles supposes he should have known telling Erik was not going to be an easy task. After all, it had taken him three tries the first time around, and though their communication skills are on the mend, being apart from one another does make the telling of secrets rather more difficult.

At least Erik knows it’s a possibility this time, unlike the last. David, understandably, had been an extreme shock for both of them. They had no way of knowing that Charles nearly being shot in the street two winters ago would be an incident traumatic enough to trigger a secondary mutation (not that it wasn’t terrifying and didn’t bring back all of the memories of what he and Erik did to Sebastien Shaw, but he wasn’t even hurt and why his body chose that moment to present such a rare mutation, he’ll never know).

Charles had found out first, of course, but not because he was expecting it. He was, quite frankly, flabbergasted. There he was one afternoon in his office, grading papers and minding his own business, when suddenly he felt… something. He hadn’t known at first what it was, but he knew it wasn’t entirely physical. It was… a presence. Something not quite human was reaching out and curling itself around his mind.

He’d been terrified, at first, before he understood what was going on. And then, after he realized, he’d _still_ been terrified. It’s not entirely a pleasant experience to realize you’re harboring another person inside your body. And it wasn’t something Charles had ever prepared himself for. It was, in some ways, deeply disturbing.

After his initial freak-out, though, he’d realized the implications. This was a baby, a real human baby, and it came from him and Erik. That was never something Charles thought they could have together. If they ever had children (and that was never a guarantee on any level), the child would only be related by blood to one of them, or perhaps to neither of them. And that would have been perfectly fine by Charles – God knows he loves his sister with all his heart, biologically related or no – but he won’t deny that it’s something special to be able to create life with the person you love.

And maybe it also helped that the baby was definitely a telepath. Charles was utterly charmed by that, perhaps a bit narcissistically. He didn’t realize then how hard it would make the first six months of the child's life. But those first tentative touches between his mind and child’s made the situation very real for Charles. He knew from the very first touch (as he did with Erik) that this baby was going to be _his_ to love.

But just because Charles accepted it so easily didn’t mean Erik would do the same. It was never going to be as simple as all that.

Telling Erik about David (and he hadn’t been _David_ then, not really) had been a prolonged process. The trouble was, once Charles came around to the idea himself, he’d become increasingly nervous about what Erik’s reaction might be. He knew Erik was still tormented by what Shaw had done to him as a child and that Erik worried about his own abilities as a father (which is ridiculous, Charles was and still is convinced, because if Erik could just stop worrying so much about it and let his instincts take over, he could be the world’s best father). Charles had hoped, maybe somewhat naively, that if he broke the news about the baby very, very gently, they could just skip Erik’s impending breakdown and instead they could cut right to the part where he realized how wonder a father he could be. Of course, that ended up not being how it all went down, but he’d had good intentions.

In hindsight, gentleness was probably a miscalculation in any case. Probably he should have been more ruthless in his confession. Maybe he should have let Erik have his breakdown immediately, long before David was born. Perhaps then they could have gotten the issues out of the way from the start. But how could Charles have known that Erik would simply shelve his breakdown until after David’s birth, at which point he would he would begin to crack very slowly. And how could Charles know that he himself would go completely mad over the baby and start neglecting his and Erik’s needs? God, how on earth could Charles ever have known how hard raising a baby telepath would be?

The truth is, he couldn’t have known, and he can admit now that it’s through no fault of his own. He’s a telepath, not a seer – he very definitely cannot predict the future. That’s why he did what he did when telling Erik about David. And, oh, what a ride that had been.

He’d started out dropping hints, trying to warm Erik up to the idea: an exaggerated recounting of a conversation with a student about secondary mutations, a book about infant development left conveniently out on the coffee table, a magazine left open to an article about the transgender male pregnancy phenomenon.

Erik hadn’t taken the bait, at first, and that was fine. Charles couldn’t have expected him to automatically jump to such an absurd conclusion. This was just stage one, where Charles tried to influence Erik’s subconscious mind.

Then Erik came home one day to find Charles flipping through a catalogue of baby clothes on the sofa. Erik sat down next to him, leaned in close and pushed his nose into Charles’s hair, and that was all normal enough that Charles didn’t think anything of it.

Then Erik pulled away enough to say, with his mind a soft, unconcerned buzz, “You’re very baby-crazy lately. Planning on kidnapping one?”

Charles took a deep breath and turned his head so he and Erik were nose to nose.

“What if we made one?” he asked carefully.

“Made one?” Erik repeated slowly. He moved back and gave Charles a once-over. 

Charles held his breath, wondering if now would be the moment it would all come out. He was twenty weeks at that point – definitely not thin by anyone’s standards, but Erik had never said (or thought) anything particularly pointed about the weight gain before (and thank God for that, because Charles had been self-conscious about it enough in the months previous). But perhaps now would be the moment when Erik would put it all together.

But then Erik grinned his shark grin. He thought Charles was joking or perhaps flirting, and he said, “Yes, I can see that. Let’s practice.” His mind skittered off to possessive cave-man fantasies, to which Charles himself was not immune.

Charles was left with no option except to allow himself to be manhandled into the bedroom and seduced. But for all that the sex was certainly enjoyable, he was forced to label that attempt at confession a failure.

But later, after Erik fucked him into the mattress (which was sort of getting uncomfortable and they’d need to find new sex positions soon) and they were lying together, exhausted, Charles tried again.

“I should tell you,” he started, “I was being serious earlier. It wasn’t a pick-up line or anything like that.”

Erik didn’t open up his eyes, but he hummed to show he was listening.

“It’s extremely rare, you know,” Charles went on. “But I seem to have developed the mutation for it. I know it’s not something we were planning, but I think it might be a good thing. I’m… very hopeful that it _will_ be a good thing. It reached out to me, and… I don’t know if I can ever forget that feeling, now that I’ve felt it.”

He sighed. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Erik snored in Charles’s general direction, and Charles realized Erik’s mind wasn’t just sleepy; it was legitimately asleep. He hadn’t heard a word. 

Well, damn.

Third time’s the try, Charles figured, so two days later he tried again. He learned his lesson this time, too: he waited until _after_ the post-sex nap to say anything. He figured he should be more direct this time, too. He grabbed Erik’s hand, put it on his stomach and said, “Daddy.”

Erik’s mind was still whirling in warm sleepy circles, but he gave Charles an odd look.

“You’re a pervert,” he told Charles earnestly, and he seemed bemused but not repulsed. He didn’t take his hand back, either, just settled in to rub circles on Charles’s belly. The baby inside squirmed, but Erik felt nothing of that.

Charles thought the problem through. Erik didn’t seem uninterested in the idea of pregnancy, but he seemed to view it more in light of a sex game than anything else. Slightly troubling for a man who considered himself homosexual, but luckily for him, he’d married a man apparently capable of gestation.

“Look,” Charles said, “I don’t want to make this about sex.”

“You don’t want to make something about sex?” Erik asked, cocking an eyebrow and projecting his skepticism in Charles’s direction. “You must be ill again.”

Charles scowled. “You’re up for it just as often as I am, and don’t you dare pretend you’re not.”

“I’m not the who keeps trying to role play,” Erik said, that smug superior look back on his face. It was a very striking look, and Charles had to remind himself not to get distracted. He was on a mission, after all.

“No, look,” he said, “I have to tell you something. No role-playing.”

Erik met his eyes, all traces of a smile gone. “I’m listening.”

Charles took a breath. “You know I’ve been sick.”

“Yes,” Erik said, and the calmness of his tone was betrayed by his sudden whirling of anxious thoughts about terminal illness and life-threatening conditions, and hadn’t they decided just last week that it was probably a persistent stomach bug? “And?”

“And it turns out I’m not sick at all,” Charles said. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

Whatever Erik had been expecting, it was plainly not that. He barked a surprised laugh. It was not a kind sound. He was half convinced Charles was having him on, and Erik never appreciated being mocked.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Charles bristled. He knew he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but he was rather tightly wound about all this, and he couldn’t help himself.

“Is it?” he challenged. “More ridiculous than you being able to bend spoons, or me consulting the bloody crystal ball?”

Erik narrowed his eyes, deeply offended by the accusation of spoon-bending. “The crystal ball,” he said meanly, “is for diviners. You understand: people with an actual useful talent.”

Charles chose to ignore that. “The Zener cards, then,” he grit out. “And you’re avoiding the point – don’t think I didn’t notice!”

“If you have a point to make, then make it.”

“Look,” Charles said, and grasped Erik’s hand, which was still resting on his belly, “do you want to feel him?”

Erik slowly looked down at their hands and then back up to meet Charles’s eyes. He suddenly didn’t look like he was gearing up for a good cathartic quarrel. He looked… wary, almost afraid.

And he _was_ afraid, Charles found when he reached out to touch his mind – afraid for all the same reasons Charles was afraid, and more so besides. He had no idea how to be a father, Erik’s mind was screaming. He didn’t know how to hold a baby, or diaper one, or raise one to be a decent human being. With everything he’d done and felt and said, how could he ever be the man a child would need him to be?

“You’re joking,” he said unsteadily, but he didn’t really believe that anymore. He knew Charles was telling the truth and it terrified him.

“No,” Charles said softly. He squeezed Erik’s hand and opened his mind, drawing Erik in at one end and the barely-there baby presence in at the other so they connected. He felt it the moment the two touched, the little shiny brand-new light wrapping itself around Erik’s warm beacon of steadfastness. He felt Erik’s mind jerk in _scared-surprised-hopeful_ suddenness. 

Erik’s breath caught and held. Charles looked up at him and saw his eyes were wet.

“I’ve never felt…” Erik started to say, but he let it trail off there, evidently unable to think of a way to end the sentence.

“No,” Charles agreed, tightening his hand and his mind around Erik. “Nor me. But… I want him. He’s ours, Erik. He’s ours to keep.”

Erik sniffed and nodded.

“Yes,” he agreed at once. “We’ll need things. Diapers, bottles, a crib. I don’t know what else.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Charles told him.

And they had. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t always fun, but they figured it out for David, and they’ll do the same for this little girl. No matter how difficult Erik’s being right now, he wants very much to be a good father – Charles never doubted that. They’ve come so far, both of them, from where they were just a few months ago. They’ll fit better this time, all four of them.

Charles just has to force himself to pick up the phone and try again with the confession.

XXXXX

Charles procrastinates. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Erik about the future, but he’s still a bit angry with how the last conversation played out. He will tell Erik, and soon. But in the meantime, there are other things that need doing.

Like game night Thursday evening, for example. He gets all the little ones (and some of the bigs, too, happily) corralled into the main room at the center with a stack of board games, and lets them go to town. Darwin, they all find out, is a shark at Uno, while Angel turns out to be a world-class Sorry! player. Hank, in a move that surprises no one, trounces them all at trivial pursuit. Sean loses handily at every game he plays, but he laughs the whole time like it’s the best entertainment he’s ever had, so Charles doesn’t feel too bad about the whole thing.

Toward the end of the night, they break up into smaller groups: Alex and Scott square up in a round of Battleship while Angel sweetly volunteers for a game of Candy Land with Suzanne and Petra.

It’s all a very good time, and Charles is nearly able to forget that there’s something important he’s putting off.

XXXXX

Later, at bedtime, Charles goes through their routine. He gets David into his jammies, gives him the tit, and then the two of them read a story together ( _Goodnight Moon_ tonight, as that seems to be a fan favorite). Then he puts David into his play yard, turns out the lights, and goes out to the front room.

David, of course, it not happy about being left alone. He fusses for a while, cries a little bit, but he’s asleep within four minutes. And that’s good, very good – a drastic improvement on those rough months before Charles and Erik went their separate ways. They have a routine now, and it has a high success rate. 

There’s a large part of Charles that worries about how Erik’s presence will affect the routine. Just because all of them are trying doesn’t mean it’s going to be smooth sailing. Some things will have to change, of course. David will need his own room, for one thing, instead of staying in Charles’s, and that’s probably going to be an ordeal. But David will adapt quickly enough. And for most everything else, Charles has high hopes that Erik will simply compliment the routine instead of out and out changing it. 

One thing is for sure: Erik had better be up for the challenge, and Charles sees no reason why he wouldn’t be at this point. Through all of their conversations since they’ve been apart, Charles has gotten the impression that Erik is very determined to do right by his family. And he seems to be making progress on that front; he seems more open, less angry. Charles only hopes he can keep that up even once he’s dealing with children again.

He also hopes that whatever secret Erik is keeping won’t interfere with these plans. Charles doesn’t rightly see what kind of secret Erik _could_ be keeping now. Charles has two clues: he’s going to be upset about it, and it involves menstruation. The first clue is easy enough to dismiss, because Erik is ridiculous and much more vulnerable than he likes to pretend, and probably Charles isn’t going to be upset at all. 

The second clue is the truly puzzling bit, because what reason on earth could Erik possibly have for purchasing a menstrual cup? He’s still traveling, as far as Charles knows, so what kind of feminine trouble could he have gotten himself into on the road? Perhaps he’s come across a group of disadvantaged young women and decided to become their patron. It doesn’t seem like Erik to have done something like that – not that he doesn’t care, but he’s not especially outgoing when it comes to meeting people, is he?

Well, whatever it is he’s gotten himself involved in, it’s clearly made him willing to overcome his thrifty nature. As a matter of fact…  
Charles checks the online banking statement, and yes, there are definitely charges on there that seem odd. Two hundred dollars from a clothing store in Colorado, a hundred more from an ATM in Iowa. Dozens of diners, countless gas stations, and there, a drugstore in upstate New York (and how Erik got through Pennsylvania without Charles noticing his presence is a question for the ages – Charles must have been very preoccupied with things here to have missed him).

It’s an odd purchasing pattern, and Charles has no idea what to make of it. The best he can figure, Erik is buying things as he goes and either leaving with someone or sending them somewhere. And neither of those scenarios make much sense.

The smart thing to do would be to pick up the phone, call Erik, and ask him flat out what’s going on. But Charles is six months pregnant and still a bit angry at his husband. So he doesn’t pick up the phone. He doesn’t call. 

XXXXX

Friday morning, and Charles is mostly over his snit, but he still hasn’t called Erik. He knows he should and he’s dying to both tell his secret and learn Erik’s, but he’s still reluctant to be the one to make the first move. 

It’s very childish, and he’s not unaware of this.

When he gets to the center, Alex is already there on the computer, looking up what worryingly seems to be commute times to local colleges.  
Charles doesn’t ask (Alex’s mind makes it plain enough what he’s hoping for and only time will tell what decision Hank will make). Instead, he gets David settled onto the play mat with some toys and fishes out his phone.

It’s been a while since he’s spoken to his sister – she’s been busy with her investigative work and he’s been busy here dealing with everyone’s drama (including his own). But he knows when he’s in need of some tough love, and Raven excels at that.

She answers on the fifth ring.

“Hey,” she says, and her voice sounds tinnier than usual.

“Hello, darling,” Charles says, and he’s suddenly struck by how much he misses her. They haven’t spent this much time apart since he first left for Oxford, before she’d decided she’d had enough of being alone and tracked him down there. “How are you? How have you been?”

“Oh, you know, not too bad, considering,” she tells him easily.

“Considering _what_?” Charles asks. He wishes she were within his range. She doesn’t like him to look into her thoughts, but when she leads him on like this, she can’t expect him not to take a peak. “What are we considering?”

Raven sighs. “I guess Erik didn’t call you yet, huh?”

“No,” Charles agrees, and he can feel himself becoming irritated again. “I take it you’re involved in whatever mischief he’s gotten himself into?”

“Oh, excuse me,” Raven says, and Charles can picture the sassy finger-wagging motion he’s positive she’s making. “Let’s be clear about this: _he_ got himself involved in _my_ business, alright, not the other way around. I was perfectly fine without him interfering, thank you very much.”

“That,” Charles says slowly, “does not clear anything up. What exactly is it the two of you are involved in? Is this about your latest job? Some sort of cult, wasn’t it? Raven, you haven’t let my husband get entangled in a cult, have you?”

Raven says nothing.

“Dear God,” Charles says, appalled. He doesn’t know how buying clothing and girl-things factors into cult-life, but this silence can mean nothing good. “Have you really?”

Raven sighs again, clearly put upon. “No,” she says firmly. “There’s no cult. Don’t be dumb. He’s not even _involved_ in anything, he’s just… look, I’m not going to be your go-between, alright? If you want to know what he’s doing, then just talk to him!”

“I did,” Charles tells her. “Two days ago. He hung up on me.”

Raven hums thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound like Erik. I talked to him yesterday and he seemed pretty much like always.”

“And how was that?”

“Well, kind of a dick,” Raven admits, and Charles laughs.

“No, seriously,” she goes on, “I’m not going to say he’s not an asshole, because you know he is, and I’m not going to say I’ve completely forgiven him for what he did to you. But… he’s trying really hard to fix it, and you should give him a second chance. He could be – he _is_ – a good father.”

“I know that,” Charles tells her, and he does.

“So call him.”

Charles agrees that he will.

He and Raven talk for a few more minutes before she has to go. He doesn’t know where she is right now or who she’s with (she refuses to say, and he laments again that he can’t peak into her mind), but she seems mostly safe and mostly happy. Charles is content with knowing that.

XXXXX

Mid-morning, just as Charles is trying to decide how early he can call Erik without looking too needy, Alex wanders over to slump beside him on the sofa.

“What’s wrong with you?” Charles asks.

“You need to make field trip plans or something, man,” Alex tells him. “I don’t think I can take looking at the walls of this place another day.”

“That bad, hmm? Well, I’m sure we can think of something. What did you have in mind?”

“Anything,” Alex says. “Seriously, anything.”

Charles thinks about this. “Well,” he says slowly, “we have a few options. We could go bowling or to the movies, something local. Or…”

“Or?”

“I have been meaning to get us all up to the indoor water park.”

Alex’s mind immediately flashes to a picture of Hank wet and half-naked, and Charles grimaces because he didn’t really need to see that. He also wishes he didn’t know that Alex has been making use of his newly-purchased sex toy in the evenings after his mother and brother go to bed. But Charles _does_ know that, and it’s rather disturbing.

He hurries to change the subject. “We would have to make sure everyone’s parents signed off on it, of course. It would be an all-day trip. Leave early in the morning, get back late in the evening. But it’s doable, if you’re volunteering to chaperone.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, slowly pulling himself away from his Hank-related fantasies. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”

XXXXX

It takes them the rest of the day to organize the trip, and Charles is tired enough by the time he gets David down to sleep that evening that he’s forced to put off calling Erik for another night, at least.

They set out the next morning bright and early. They have enough people interested in going that it requires two vehicles, so Charles takes the van and allows Alex to drive his car. It does make him a bit nervous to have someone other than himself behind the wheel with children in the back, but he knows that’s just his mother-hen instinct and Alex is a perfectly safe driver. Hank volunteers to serve as Alex’s navigator, and works further to set Charles’s mind at ease.

The children are all too tired at first to carry on much, but the drive to the city isn’t a short one, and by the halfway mark, Charles has to find them a convenient rest-stop to give himself a break from their excited mental activity. The children, of course, relish the chance to stretch their legs, so it all works out in the end.  
Even with the break in the middle, Charles is definitely ready to be done by the time they reach the water park. He gets everyone out of the car as quickly as he can and ushers them across the chilly parking lot into the blissfully warm building. It’s early, yet, but there seems to be a good-sized crowd already in the park. The children rush over to look through the clear windows at the expanse of indoor tropical paradise below. Charles smiles and gives the woman at the desk his name and his bank card – his real bank card, the one to the joint account. If Erik can charge things then so can he.

The children are impatient to go in, of course, barely willing to wait the ten seconds it takes each of them to get a wrist band. As they go through the doors and into the main park, they all stare up in dazzled awe at the water slides and wave pool and tree fort. All of them start thinking serious thoughts about taking off in different directions.

“Oh, I think not,” Charles says, catching Jubilee sharply by the arm as she tries to make a break for it. “Swimsuit first, missy. And we’re on the buddy system, remember? No one goes anywhere without their buddy.” He’s got the edge from baseline chaperones in that he can keep mental tabs on each of the children, even through the crowd, but he’s taking no chances on this.

To Angel, he adds, “ Would you mind supervising the girls’ locker room business?”

Angel gives him a look, like she wishes he’d stop signing her up for things, but she nods and leads the girls into the changing rooms.

“Alex, you’ve got the boys?”

“I’ve got this, Prof,” Alex says, and to the boys, he says, “No one’s going anywhere without a swimsuit, punks.”

Charles takes that to mean he has things in hand.

“Right then,” Charles says, mostly to David, as he’s the only one listening. “Swim time, yes?”

Charles, of course, can’t exactly strip down to his underthings in this crowd. Not that anyone would guess his condition – likely they would just think he’s overweight – but he doesn’t really feel like exposing more skin than necessary these days. He settles for a light shirt and swim shorts. David gets a swim diaper (with added fishy design), and a pair of teeny-tiny swim short of his own.

Then they’re ready.

Charles and David do a lot of lounging for the next few hours while children run and scream around them. First they lounge near the tree house so Charles can take pictures of his little ones with the waterproof camera he borrowed from Moira MacTaggert. As the day wears on, though, that area fills up with more children, and David starts to get fussy, so Charles takes him over to the area for the really little ones. They find a comfortable spot there to lounge and David takes a turn in a baby swing.

The air is humid, the water is warm lapping against his ankles, and Charles finds himself feeling very contented with the world. Obviously it would be better if Erik were here (not least because he would let Charles lean against him and he could move the baby swing and keep David occupied without either of them having to lift a finger).

It’s not a bad time, all told. The children certainly enjoy themselves, and Charles gets loads of great pictures that he decides he’s going to put up on their website… just as soon as they get a website. That seems exactly like the sort of project Erik should be given once he finds them. Something to keep him preoccupied and out of trouble.

“Your daddy would like that, wouldn’t he?” Charles murmurs to David.

David hasn’t been paying Charles much attention, focused instead on all the other minds (and not crying about how many and how loud they are, for which Charles is so very grateful), but he looks up as Charles speaks. His sweet, soft mind wraps around the words and he thinks silvery thoughts.

“You miss your daddy,” Charles says, and he knows it’s true.

Enough of this sulking. No matter what Erik’s done or hasn’t done, this separation has to come to an end. No more messing around.

XXXXX

It’s late by the time they get back to town that night and get all the children packed off home to sleep it off. Probably it’s too late to call out, but Charles does anyway. Erik answers quickly, which means he must not be too angry about the radio silence.

“Hello, love,” Charles says. “Are you ready to talk?”

He doesn’t mean it to be confrontational, but Erik must take it that way, because he immediately says, “Yes. You should know something.”

“Oh,” Charles says, surprised but not displeased. “Alright. Go on, then.”

Erik takes an audible breath and then says firmly, “I’ve been emotionally unfaithful.”

Charles… doesn’t know how to take that.

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

Does Erik mean he’s been cheating, after all? Charles doesn’t believe it of him. He’d joked before and sure, he has his doubts now and again, but at the end of the day Charles honestly does not believe Erik would do that. Erik loves Charles. Erik reveres Charles. Erik would not go and fall in love with someone else. It’s impossible. 

Isn’t it?

“To our son,” Erik says, and that doesn’t exactly clear it up.

“What are you talking about?” Charles asks. “What exactly is it you’ve done?”

“There’s a little girl. Ororo. We’re traveling together. We-”

“Under what capacity?” Charles cuts in. “Under what circumstances have you and this little girl come to travel together?”

There’s a pause, then Erik admits what Charles has been hoping he won’t. “I suppose you would call it kidnapping.”

Charles takes a deep breath, holds it for a long moment. He can feel himself tensing up from the stress this is definitely going to cause. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on where Erik is, but he’d better have a damn good excuse for all the laws he’s apparently been breaking.

“For what purpose?” Charles grits out.

“She was in danger,” Erik says quietly. “She… she’s an orphan.”

Like me, he doesn’t say, but Charles hears it all the same, and damn it, how can Charles berate him for that, for seeing a little girl in danger and saving her. But God, what a mess! What a stupid, illegal, ridiculous mess! But that’s Erik, of course, a total wreck of good intentions and stupid ideas.

“Is she hurt?” Charles asks carefully. He needs a clearer picture, because one of them has to be the grown-up here, and it damn sure isn’t going to be Erik – no surprise there. “How old is she? How long are you planning on keeping her?”

“She’s fine,” Erik tells him, voice flat – not like he’s hiding something, but rather like he doesn’t even want to consider any other possibility. “She’s eleven, twelve in four months. She’s very intelligent. Has a mutation, controls it well.”

“And that’s all well and good,” Charles agrees, “but what are you going to do with her?”

He can hear how frantic his voice is becoming, can feel how tense his shoulders are. He has to make a concentrated effort to calm himself. He takes a few deep breathes and reminds himself that it’s going to be fine. He has the power to make this alright again, no matter what Erik’s done and for what reason.

“Look,” he says, and he’s pleased to hear he sounds much calmer, “has this girl even agreed to being with you, or is this really out-and-out kidnapping?”

“She needs me,” Erik says, voice low and certain. “She wants me. She’s mine to protect.”

Something about the way he says it brings the whole situation into sharper focus; Charles latches on to the idea that’s been barely eluding him this entire conversation.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “You’ve gone and gotten attached to her! This isn’t just a girl you’ve taken off the street; you want to keep her!”

Erik breathes heavily on the other side of the line, and Charles wishes desperately that he could reach out and touch his thoughts. He can only imagine what Erik is thinking right now. He hates being this far apart, and he’s had absolutely enough of it.

“Look-” Charles starts, but Erik cuts him off with a terse, “I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what?” Charles asks, bewildered. “To kidnap a child? I should hope not. It’s not exactly an ambition you plan for, is it?”

“I didn’t mean to feel this way about her,” Erik grits out. “I didn’t want to fall for her.”

It takes Charles a while to parse that, and then a while more to figure out what his own reaction should be.

“Give me a minute,” he tells Erik. “I need to think this through.”

Erik agrees, and Charles listens to his breathing as he puzzles it out.

Because, alright, on the one hand, it does sting that Erik was apparently able to fall for some strange little girl so easily when he struggled so much to bond with David. David is Charles's _baby_ and a part of him hates Erik a little bit for not caring enough about him, even as he he knows that's ridiculous and untrue. But that’s clearly what Erik’s worried about, too – the idea that he might not love his own son, just because he loves another child. He’s obviously been worrying himself silly about being emotionally unfaithful, but that’s not really how children work, is it? It’s not a marriage; you can definitely fall for more than one child. And Erik might not believe that right away, but Charles will make him see sense.

On the other hand, though, nothing about this is bad news. Charles was slightly worried early on in this pregnancy that Erik might not have the emotional wherewithal to spread his love around like that. It's been his hope that Erik would, in fact, fall for more than one child (and alright, he'd assumed all the children in the equation would be his biologically, but he's not married to the idea). And the point is, all his worrying was clearly unfounded. Erik definitely has the ability to love more than one child, this is proof of that.

Actually, the fact that Erik’s managed to bond so quickly with this girl, this Ororo, isn’t that surprising. She’s not afraid of him, for one thing, and she’s obviously open about wanting him around. _She wants me_ , Erik had said, and that’s something David hasn’t been able to show Erik so far. But David has improved in leaps and bounds since they’ve apart, and Charles just knows that when they come together again, David won’t be so afraid. He wants his daddy, no doubt about that, and this time Charles is going to make sure Erik knows that.

The only problem, then, is what they’re going to do with the girl. They’ll have to play some mind games, of course, and Charles is not pleased about that prospect, but he’ll do it to keep them all safe. He’ll play his Jedi mind trick on some detectives, if he has to, and some social workers, definitely. They’ll put it all to right and keep Erik out of trouble. Getting the girl settled will take more time, and Charles isn’t sure what Erik expects to happen there. Does he think they’ll take her in and make her one of their own? Charles isn’t opposed to adoption, certainly, but he would have preferred to make any such venture a joint-decision. But then again, Charles got to know both David and this little girl he carries first before Erik did, so maybe it’s only fair that Erik gets to know this child, Ororo, first.

One thing Charles can take out of this for sure, and that’s that Erik absolutely, definitely will love all of his children. This is proof.

“Well,” Charles says at last, once his thoughts have stopped spinning quite so fast. “It’s rather unexpected, I’ll give you that.”

“You don’t sound angry,” Erik says slowly. “You should be angry with me.”

“You do make my life very difficult,” Charles agrees. “We’re going to have to do some serious damage control. But, Erik, love, I’m not going to be angry with you for having _feelings_.”

“What about David?”

“What about him?” Charles asks. “He’s still here. He misses you, I can tell you that. Don’t you miss him?”

“Yes,” Erik says at once and with great feeling, more than Charles is used to hearing, even after the conversation they’ve just been having. “I do. So much.”

“Then come to me,” Charles says, simple as that.

“I can’t,” Erik says, and he sounds pained. “The girl is still in danger. I don’t know where you are, anyway.”

Charles considers this. What danger is the girl in? It doesn’t sound urgent, whatever it is, which means it can probably wait until they’ve both had a breather. But even if there is danger, that doesn’t mean Erik has to be so very far away. He could come within range of Charles’s gift, at least.

Actually, that gives him an idea – an idea so brilliant he’s surprised it didn’t come to him sooner.

“You need to get within range,” he says, suddenly excited. “I’ve got something to tell you, but I need you to be within range first.”

“I don’t know where you are,” Erik repeats.

Oh, right.

“Check the bank statement. I used the card earlier today. That should get you close enough without being too close. And then, you just wait – you’re going to be _very_ surprised.”

“I don’t care much for surprises,” Erik tells him, voice dry.

Charles bites his lip against a smile, because Erik seems to have made a miraculously speedy recovery from all those pesky emotions he was having only a few moments ago. Three months ago, he wouldn’t have had his game face back on so quickly. It’s good news all around, and not just because that tone is a turn-on (though it is).

“You’ll like this one,” Charles promises. “How soon can you get within range?”

Erik hums in thought and then says, “Give me twenty-four hours.”

“Right,” Charles says. Even for all these complications that Erik seems happy to pile on, even for the little girl that Charles doesn’t know what in God’s name they’re going to do with… even for all that, he can’t help the way his heart jumps. Twenty-four hours, and Erik’s mind will be his to touch again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But what about the baby reveal, you say? That, my dear friends, will be next chapter, and it's going to be a good one! After all, Charles has *ideas*


	25. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, people have finally stopped feeding me sauerkraut when I stop by to visit, so I guess that means the year can begin in earnest (although to be honest, there’s never a bad time for the ‘kraut. But I digress).
> 
> And now, as promised, Erik's surprise!

Erik hangs up the phone with his heart still pounding – from relief or lingering nerves, he can’t decide. It’s late, and the girl is asleep on the other bed, but Erik couldn’t sleep even before he took the call, and there’s definitely no hope for it now. He can’t even begin to sort out the feelings he’s having right now. He wants to think the worst is over now that he’s confessed, but he didn’t exactly manage to tell Charles the truth in its entirety. He mentioned nothing about the Brotherhood or the danger they’re all in because of the choices Erik’s made. Charles needs to know the truth about that, but on top of everything else Erik’s just confessed to, he couldn’t quite bring himself to add fuel to the fire of his shame – especially not when Charles seemed so ready to forgive him for everything else.

And how that’s happened, Erik has no idea, though he’s so relieved he can feel himself shaking with it. Somehow, someway, Charles is willing to forgive him for loving Ororo. And it is _love_ , he knows that now. It’s not just attachment or wanting to protect her. He hasn’t known her that long, but Charles is right: Erik wants to keep her. Which Charles is somehow okay with.

But David… well, Charles hadn’t seemed concerned with that, either. He’d said David misses Erik. Erik doesn’t know what to do with that information, can barely bring himself to trust that it’s true. He doesn’t think Charles would lie to him about that (or about anything important; Erik will _not_ forget he has to keep trusting Charles to make this work), but David’s only a baby. Babies are temperamental. What if David changes his mind? What if, when their minds touch again, David remembers every reason he has to be frightened of Erik. What if nothing’s changed and Erik can’t keep himself calm enough to hold his son?

Erik’s chest aches in the way it did when David was first taken from him. His throat aches and his eyes prickle and his hands are all but shaking. He’s probably going to tear up the way he had at Meteor Crater, the same way he had after that terrible nightmare about his mother. He’s going to cry, and he _hates_ it. He hates feeling this way, he always has.

But… he’s not angry. And that’s something.

Erik’s little mouse misses his vater, even for all his faults. Erik’s saint of a husband has forgiven him enough to let him come home. And the girl… Erik gets to keep her, too.

And there’s the surprise, whatever that could be, but Charles had told him that he’d like it. 

It all seems… too good to be true.

Erik sniffs, rubs his left eye with his fist. He’s going to have to take this into the bathroom before he wakes the girl. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but he swears here and now that whatever Charles has to say, Erik’s not going to do anything to fuck this up.

XXXXX

Erik doesn’t sleep well. No surprise there. Ororo, at least, sleeps the night through, which will have to be good enough.

“Where are we going?” she asks when she sees Erik looking at the map the next morning. 

She’s used to them just picking a direction and driving. It hadn’t mattered before where they ended up, as long as they kept moving. Now, though, Erik has a destination. He’s had a look at the bank statement, and at long last he’s found his indoor water park. He knows now the general area they need to be in. He doesn’t know why Charles needs him in range, but he’d sounded happy last night when he’d asked, and Erik won’t take that away from him. It would be nice if _Charles_ were in _Erik’s_ range in return so Erik could feel touch the ring on his finger, but probably they can’t risk getting that close – not with the Brotherhood still on their tail.

“We’re going west,” Erik tells her.

“Oh,” Ororo says, thinking about this. “To Canada?”

Erik frowns at her. “No. We’re not going to risk Interpol getting involved. Southwest, then. To Pennsylvania.”

“We just came from there.”

“Yes,” Erik agrees. “And now we’re going back.”

“For what purpose?” She doesn’t seem to be arguing, but he knows from experience that her attitude could change at any time.

“My family is there.” He’s sure of it now.

Ororo’s eyes go wide. “You have found them?”

“Not yet,” Erik says. “But I will.”

XXXXX

They drive mostly in silence for the first hour or so, Erik with nervous hands clenched firmly on the steering wheel and Ororo staring moodily out the window.

Then Ororo says out of the blue, “We could go south.”

Erik glances in her direction. She’s not looking at him.

“Why would we do that?” he asks, idly curious.

“South would be better,” she insists. “Warmer.”

“I warned you to buy something more insulated,” Erik says. “It’s not my fault you wanted to dress like a punk.”

“There is nothing wrong with how I dress,” Ororo insists, crossing her arms over her chest.

“As you like,” Erik says. It doesn’t matter to him. He’s not the fashion police (and thank God for that, because he’d definitely have had to arrest his darling husband by now). 

He turns up the heat a notch. “We’re going west,” he tells her.

And that’s the end of it – or so he thinks until a few hours later when they’re eating sandwiches at an interstate-town café in the middle of New York state. Ororo isn’t eating much, just worrying the crusts of the bread between her fingers. She’s much more picky about her food than Erik thinks anyone who’s been on the streets has a right to be, but she is only a child, after all, and maybe that’s young enough not to have been irrevocably damaged by her situation. Erik hopes that’s the case, anyway. She’s not what he would call well-adjusted, certainly, but he hopes her pickiness is a good sign.

Ororo looks up at Erik, dark eyes worried.

“We have to go back,” she says.

“Back where?” Erik asks. She’s been odd all morning, and he’s not enjoying these non sequiturs. 

“To the place we stayed last night,” she says. She puts down the frayed remains of her sandwich and brushes the crumbs from her hands. “I forgot something there.”

Erik frowns. Something about the way she says it makes him think perhaps she’s not being honest. 

“What did you forget?”

There’s a pause, then Ororo says, “My stuffed duck.”

“The duck is in the car,” Erik tells her. He knows for a fact it’s true; he saw it just before they came inside to eat.

Ororo takes this in stride. “My coat,” she says. “I forgot my coat.”

“You wore your coat in,” Erik says. “It’s hanging behind you on your chair.”

Ororo glances behind her to where, sure enough, the coat is hanging. She bites her lip.

After a moment, she says, “I forgot my toothbrush.”

Erik… has no idea if that’s true or not. It very well could be; he’s not the Keeper of the Toothbrushes. But even still, it’s not irreplaceable.

“We’ll buy you another,” he says carefully, aware of the marked increase of static electricity in the room.

“No!” Ororo slams her fist down on the table, making their plates rattle and their glasses jump. “I want that one! We have to go back for it!”

“We’ll get you another,” Erik tells her again, as calmly as he can manage. He will not be swayed by the threat of an impending tantrum. Erik does not negotiate with terrorists.

“I want _that one_!” Ororo yells, bringing her hands down again to slam on the table.

People all around them are turning to stare. Outside, the storm clouds start to gather.

“Ororo,” Erik hisses. This isn’t good at all. This can only end in tears and perhaps they’ll even be his. “Calm down right now. We’re not going back to the motel, but we’ll get you another toothbrush. A better one.”

“No!”

Lightning flashes outside, and a shiver runs down Erik’s spine.

“That’s it,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat. “We’re leaving.”

“No!”

Erik closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. They can’t stay – not after this display, and not when the Brotherhood could be looking for them at this very moment. They’re too close to New York City now for Ororo to be using her powers like this. Someone is definitely going to notice, and probably sooner rather than later. Erik has to be strong here. He has to be the grown-up.

He opens his eyes and looks at the little girl. Her face is flushed, and her hands are clenched in anger.

“Ororo,” he says, deadly serious. “Get up. We’re leaving. Right. Now.”

Ororo sniffs, and he can see she’s scared, too, under the anger. And that’s something he knows a bit about, incidentally.

“No,” she says again, but it’s a whisper this time.

“Your anger won’t help you,” Erik tells her softly. “Believe me, I know. It will only make everything worse. And I think you know that.”

Ororo sniffs again. She says nothing.

“It’s not safe, Ororo,” Erik tells her. “We can’t stay here. If something’s wrong, we can work through it. You promised to trust me. Will you keep your promise?”

They stare at one another, neither blinking or looking away. For a moment, Erik thinks she’ll refuse.

Then the storm clouds outside begin to dissipate.

“Thank you,” Erik tells her sincerely. He can feel the tension draining out of his shoulders.

He grabs for his wallet, leaves enough to cover the meal on the table, and then hustles Ororo into her coat. She doesn’t look happy, but at least she’s being cooperative now. He means what he’s said: they can talk about this, about why she wants to go back, but they can’t do it here and now.

In a few short minutes, they’re on the road again.

XXXXX

“Do you want to talk about it?” Erik asks Ororo sometime later.

“No,” Ororo says. She doesn’t sound angry now, just sad.

“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Ororo sighs. “It cannot be fixed at all,” she tells him softly.

Erik looks at her: her downturned face, her long eyelashes fanning over her cheekbones, her hair drooping down onto her forehead because she hadn’t styled it this morning.

He sighs, looks back at the road. He decides to do something he’s not entirely conformable with. He reaches over, grabs her hand, and laces their fingers together.

“It will be alright, Schnecke,” he tells her, and he hopes that’s a promise he can keep.

XXXXX

Erik becomes more and more nervous as they get closer to their destination: the city with the water park. Ororo, too, seems increasingly on-edge as the day progresses. By the time they finally get into the city, they’re both strung out with nerves and exhausted from the tension.

As he promised, Erik buys Ororo a new toothbrush: a fancy electric one that costs Erik more than he wants to think about, especially now that he’s quit his job. The whole thing smacks of bribery, but Erik had promised and he won’t make himself a liar over something so small.

They check themselves into a cheap motel , and Ororo sacks out quickly, duck in hand. Erik watches her sleep for a few minutes, wishing he was better at this _caring_ thing, wishing he could do something to fix whatever’s wrong with this little girl. He still stands by what he thought earlier: she’s not damaged irreparably. But that doesn’t mean she’s not hurting here and now, and if Erik were a better man, maybe he could fix it. He knows his own limitations, though, and he knows by now that parenting isn’t as easy as it seems.

It’s a novel idea to be able to think of himself as a parent to her. He hadn’t quite had the idea formed in his head before he spoke to Charles last night, but he knows now that Charles wasn’t wrong: Erik does want to keep her for his own. When he daydreams now about his family, it’s the four of them together: Erik and Charles, Ororo and David (and God, Erik misses David so much in those dreams that it hurts to breathe).

Erik doesn’t know how all of that is going to work, or if it’s going to work at all. He doesn’t know if he can have what he wants. But he’s damn sure going to try.

He calls Charles, because what else can he do in a moment like this? Besides, Charles owes him a surprise.

“Hello, love,” Charles says, and his voice is breathy – nervous or perhaps excited.

“I’m here,” Erik tells him. “I’m where you wanted me. Now what?”

“You sound tired,” Charles says. “You should take a nap.”

“A nap?” Erik repeats, incredulous. He could have taken a damn nap in upstate New York. He didn’t drive the whole way here just to sleep. “No. You said you had a surprise. What is it?”

“Nap first,” Charles insists.

Erik growls. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, darling,” Charles says easily. “I can help you along. You’re in my range again, and God it’s good to feel you.”

“How close are you?” Erik asks. Charles isn’t within _Erik’s_ range, that’s for sure, but it can’t be too much farther. Charles’s range is expansive, but in a receptive capacity only. He can sense thought and feeling in people he knows well from a good distance, but his control slips the further he tries to push himself. He certainly can’t play any of his mind-control games from farther away than a few miles, which means Erik technically has the edge there (and he’ll admit, it’s a point of pride to be competitive with the great Charles Xavier in terms of power).

“A hundred miles, maybe,” Charles says. “As the crow flies and all.”

“That’s too far,” Erik reminds him. “You’ll trigger a migraine.”

Charles says, “Normally I’d agree, but I’ve talked Hank into letting me borrow his science experiment. It’s a transmitter, of a sort. My range should be very much increased.”

“Is it safe? I don’t like you messing around with something made by a child.”

“Oh, it’s very safe,” Charles assures him. “Hank is brilliant, darling. Trust me.”

“I do,” Erik somehow manages to make himself say. “Trust you, I mean.”

And he does. Charles is the axis around which Erik’s world turns. Charles is the one who keeps them together, who never loses his composure, who always knows exactly the right thing to do. Erik loves him and Erik trusts him.

“Good,” Charles says. “Then sleep.”

Erik does.

XXXXX

Erik’s dream is oddly realistic. It’s not necessarily a good thing. He’s had more dreams in these past few months that he’s been alone than he has in the entire ten years he’s been with Charles, and almost all of them have been nightmares. But he doesn’t usually know they’re dreams until he’s awake again, which means whatever is happening here, it’s something new and unknown.

Erik is not a fan of new or unknown.

This dream starts out oddly tame, for a dream. He’s standing in room he’s never seen before. There’s a bed in the middle, unmade in a way that makes Erik uncomfortable. There are clothes on the floor, and obviously whoever lives here is rather untidy.

There’s a noise from behind Erik, and he spins around, heart pounding. He knows that noise, or something close to it. It’s the sort of noise he wants to hear all the time, the sort he can only hear now over the phone or in video clips.

There’s a travel crib in the corner of the room. Slowly, scared to breathe for fear it will disappear, Erik steps closer. He takes a breath to calm himself, then looks into the crib.

And there. God. It’s David, and he’s awake. He’s looking right at Erik and… he’s not crying.

“Mäuschen,” Erik breathes. His eyes feel hot. He blinks, clenches his hands to calm their shaking. “David.”

David says, “Dadadada!” He raises his little hands up and his tiny fingers point right at Erik.

Erik chokes, trying to get his breathing under control. He doesn’t know how long this dream will last, but he’s going to take advantage of it while it does. Slowly, carefully, he reaches down to pick up his son.

“Oh, David,” Erik says, and hugs him to his chest. He’s gotten so big! And maybe this is just Erik’s brain playing tricks on him, but when David says, “Dadada,” again and grabs Erik’s nose, Erik just doesn’t care.

“Oh dear,” a voice says from behind them.

Erik spins around to see Charles standing in the doorway, watching them.

“What?” Erik says. He looks back at his son, not waiting for an answer. He doesn’t let go of his boy, just clings to him and lets David’s slimy hands explore his face.

“I don’t know how he got drawn into this,” Charles says, frowning slightly. “I may have overreached.”

“What’s going on?” Erik asks

Charles comes closer. 

“I suppose you would classify it as astral projection,” he says.

“But I’m dreaming,” Erik points out. They’ve talked about the potential for astral projection before and how that might be achieved via telepathy, but this was never something they considered.

“Yes, and it appears David is, as well. But I’m not actually asleep right now. I’m meditating, in a way, and projecting my consciousness into your dream.”

Erik frowns and rubs his cheek against David’s soft hair. He doesn’t like the sound of that.

“This could be dangerous.”

“It isn’t,” Charles assures him. “I’ve been playing around with since last night when I had the idea. Nothing’s gone wrong, yet.”

“There’s still time,” Erik says.

He looks down at his son again. David’s let go of his nose and now seems eager to put his hand into Erik’s mouth. Erik feels such a wave of affection for the boy that it almost bowls him over. 

This is his _son_. Erik helped give him life. Erik held this child in the crook of his arm minutes after he came into this world. He’d looked into David’s red and wrinkly face, and in that moment, he’d known that he wanted this boy more than anything he’s ever wanted before. And now, at last, maybe David wants him, as well.

“I told you he missed you,” Charles says, taking another step closer. 

There’s so much Erik wants to say that the words stick in his throat. He swallows and forces himself to say, “I missed him. I love him.”

He says it in English, and he knows that Charles knows what that costs Erik to do.

In his arms, David whimpers, and for a moment Erik is afraid that he’s going to start crying again, demanding to be held instead by Charles. But David doesn’t cry. He grabs Erik’s shirt with his left hand and presses his head against Erik’s chest.

“He can tell you’re sad,” Charles says quietly, stepping close to rub David’s back. His hands meet Erik’s arm and stay there for a long moment. Erik basks in the touch. He’s waited for this moment for so long, and it might not be real, but he’s damn sure going to take it. This is his family, and maybe there’s a little girl waiting for him in the waking world, but that doesn’t mean he loves this part of his family any less.

The thought’s like a revelation, and Erik can feel his eyes widening. Maybe he’s been wrong this whole time. Maybe he can love his son and Ororo, too, without either feeling making the other less.

“David knows you love him,” Charles says, still rubbing circles on David’s back. “He can feel it. And he can feel that you’re upset. He doesn’t know why, but look Erik – look what your son is doing. He wants to comfort you. He doesn’t think you should be sad.”

Erik draws a shaky breath. He looks down at David’s tiny, innocent face.

“He doesn’t know what I’ve done.” 

Charles shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care, Erik. And if he did care, he would forgive you.”

Erik looks up and meets Charles’s eyes. This is it, then.

“And you?”

“I’ve already forgiven you. I… don’t know when that happened, but it has.”

Erik lets himself avert his eyes, looking back down at the baby nuzzling into his collarbone.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, and he knows it’s true. God knows he loves his family so much he can hardly handle it, but he’s not a good father or a good husband. He’s always known that. He’s the reason their family fell apart, and just because they’re coming back together again doesn’t mean Erik can be anything other than what he is.

“Erik,” Charles says, voice rough. He brings a hand up to cup Erik’s cheek, forcing Erik to look back at him. “It’s not okay, what happened. And it can _never_ happen again. But… I love you, Erik. And maybe that’s not enough to fix anything, but it’s a reason to try. I know you’re not perfect, and you know I’m not either, ” – Erik doesn’t know any such thing – “but we’re better together, I know that now. I’m willing to keep trying, if you are.”

That’s really what happened, all those months ago after David’s birth: they both stopped trying, stopped caring enough to try. But Erik knows better now, too, and he won’t make that same mistake again.

“Yes,” he says.

Charles smiles, genuinely and with relief.

“Good,” he says, and lets his thumb rub along Erik’s jawline. “Now, let’s put this little one to sleep, yes?”

Erik frowns. He doesn’t want to put his Mäuschen down, for one thing, but the other things is…

“Isn’t he already asleep?”

“Oh,” Charles says, and for once he looks absolutely stumped by the question. Erik feels a pleased rush at having put that look there. “Er… That is, yes. I suppose you’re right. But look at him; he’s clearly tired.”

Even Erik can see that. The baby’s eyes are drooping and he keeps pushing his face against Erik’s chest.

“Perhaps he’s moving into a different stage of the sleep cycle?” Charles guesses.

“Perhaps,” Erik agrees, though he’s no sleep practitioner. Who is he to say how telepathy interacts with dreams?

He kisses David’s head, then forces himself to put the boy back down into his crib.

“Sleep well, child.”

David looks up at him sleepily, eyes falling shut. Then he pops his thumb into his mouth and turns his head away.

Erik watches him for a minute, taking him in. It’s been so long and who knows how long it will be again before he can hold his son in the real world.

“This wasn’t actually why I arranged this, you know,” Charles says. “I wasn’t expecting us to hash anything out. And God knows there’s more we need to talk about, but… I was actually sort of hoping we could get some alone time, you and I.”

He puts a hand on Erik’s shoulder and squeezes.

Erik turns to look at him, really _look_ at him, for the first time since this whole thing started.

Charles is beautiful, so much so that Erik can hardly believe he’s real. The pictures Charles sent were good, but they were no substitute for the real thing: his light eyes, a strong nose, his soft skin and his pink lips. His hair is dark and shining in the way Erik’s come to associate with pregnancy, and he’s got the smug look on his face of a man who knows he’s being ogled. 

“See something you like?” Charles asks.

“Yes, I do. Is this my surprise?”

He grabs Charles around the waist and reels him in until their faces are scant inches apart and they’re breathing the same air. Charles’s body is solid and warm under his hands. Erik can’t believe how good it feels to touch again after so long apart.

“Not as such,” Charles says, “but I won’t say I’m not on the menu if you’re in the mood for an appetizer.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re at least the soup course,” Erik says.

Charles grins, obviously flattered, and Erik’s heart jumps in his chest. 

He wants to say something real, something meaningful, but it’s so hard. He doesn’t know why he’s like this, why he can be so eloquent when he’s flirting or discussing his work or his politics, but can’t manage to get anything real out of his mouth without choking. It’s not the worst of his failings, but it’s bad enough, and he hates it all the same.

 _It’s alright, darling_ , Charles thinks, eyes suddenly serious.

It’s a measure of Erik’s relief at having Charles in his head again that he manages to again swallow down the blocking thing in throat that’s stopping him from saying what he wants to. Then it’s easier, suddenly, to say the words, maybe because he knows he doesn’t actually need to put them to voice for Charles to know them. Charles knows Erik, knows everything about him. Nothing Erik could ever say would take him by surprise.

“You’re beautiful,” Erik says, and he means it wholeheartedly.

Charles laughs, soft and easy. “Like a dream, yes? Perhaps it’s because I am one. This is all in your mind, after all. I could look like anything I wanted.”

That puts Erik on more even footing, which is probably what Charles intended.

“Maybe you could,” Erik says, “but you haven’t. Don’t tell me I don’t know what my husband looks like.”

“It’s been months since we’ve seen one another, darling,” Charles says. “Perhaps I’ve changed. Perhaps I look different now.”

He’s still sort of smiling, like he has a trick up his sleeve.

Erik looks him up and down, critically. He is beautiful, of course, but probably things _have_ changed since they’ve last seen one another. This is how Erik remembers Charles looking the last time they’d made love, their last best night together when David was only a few months old and having a rare good week. There were a few nights after that where they’d fooled around a bit (though not much, not with Erik steadily losing his composure), but when Erik daydreams now, this is the Charles he thinks about: baby weight not completely gone, hips wider than they’d ever been before, the stubble on his jaw doing crazy and endearing things. And beautiful for all of that.

“Those aren’t very flattering thoughts, darling,” Charles says, on the edge of a pout.

“They should be,” Erik tells him, and pulls him up into a kiss.

It’s a slow kiss, making up for lost time by being thorough instead of quick. It’s hot and deep. Erik wraps his arms around Charles’s back, trying to pull him closer still. He wants to touch every inch of him, get as close as he possibly can.

Then something changes, and Erik pulls back, confused. Where there was worn cotton before, there’s now warm bare skin against under his hands and there are somehow finger clenching at Erik’s suddenly naked shoulders.

“What-?” he asks, disoriented. He seems to be on his back on the bed, and Charles is lying up over him so they’re hip to hip. They’re both stark naked. “How?”

“This is a dream,” Charles reminds him, his smug grin making a reappearance. “Dream logic. It doesn’t have to make sense. No need to waste time on the preliminary bits.”

Erik frowns, but lets his hands skim down Charles’s bare back.

“I didn’t realize you considered kissing a preliminary,” he says, miffed. “Don’t skip anything else.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Charles says, shifting enough to worm a hand down between them. He grasps Erik’s cock with miraculously slick hands and strokes him solidly. Erik groans and bucks up into it.

“I could go down on you, of course,” Charles says, hand still working. “That would make it up to you. I know that’s what you wanted from me, before. And I would never turn down letting you fuck my mouth.”

Erik groans again, at the words and the sensations both.

“But I’ve waited too long to mess around with this,” Charles goes on. “I’m going to have your cock inside me and I’m not going to wait any longer for it.”

“You’re such a slut,” Erik tells him, half-admiring and unbelievably turned-on. He should probably be helping out, but Charles obviously has this in hand.

“Mmm, yes, and you love that about me, don’t you?”

He lets go of Erik’s cock and pushes himself up onto his knees. Erik whimpers at the loss of sensation, but it’s only temporary. Charles raises up onto his knees, and leans forward. Then his hand is back on Erik’s cock, holding it steady while he lowers himself onto it. It’s flawless execution, and Erik’s hips buck up into the heat without his permission.

“Gott,” he grits out.

“We’ll never be able to have real-life sex again,” Charles teases. “Dream sex is definitely going to spoil us, darling.”

“No,” Erik tells him, and then reaches up to slap Charles’s flank. “Come on. Move.”

Charles does, lifting himself up and then grinding his hips back down.

“God,” Charles says, biting his lip and pushing his down harder. “God, you feel so good. I don’t know how I could have forgotten how nicely you stretch me open, how good it feels to be so full. I want this all the time, Erik. We’ll never be able to do anything else ever again because I’m not going to ever let you stop fucking me.”

Erik closes his eyes, basking in the words and glorious feeling of Charles wrapped around him.

Charles rides him like that, hot and tight and perfect, with just the steady rhythm Erik’s wanted since their kiss. It’s always like this with Charles: he always knows exactly what Erik wants and needs. With one hand on Erik’s chest and another behind him to steady himself, Charles works himself down onto Erik’s cock, then rocks his hips up and away.

“You know,” Charles says, and groans as he finds an angle he likes best. “You know… I might have gotten fat again, since you’ve seen me last. Would you still – oh, yes, right there! – would you still fuck me if I weren’t thin?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Erik pants out. Erik doesn’t care about that. He never has. It was fine with David and it will be fine again next time. “Why? Are you – unh – planning on making another baby?”

He tightens his grip on Charles’s hips, fucking up hard into him. Charles’s head tips back, exposing his pale throat, and he moans. He clenches around Erik so beautifully that Erik completely fails to keep the pace.

“Oh, that’s so good,” Charles says breathily. “Right there, darling.”

Erik looks up at his shiny, sweating, beautiful face, and thinks that it wouldn’t be so bad, if they made another baby. Maybe they will someday, once they’ve gotten this whole stupid mess sorted out. Erik’s never going to be good enough for Charles or any children they might have together, but he’s going to love them all the same.

“Oh God,” Charles says, and suddenly Erik’s the one on top, with Charles on his back, legs wrapped around Erik’s waist.

 _Damn dream logic_ , but Erik doesn’t mind, especially not when Charles leans up to whisper in Erik’s ear. “Fuck me now. You’ll be such a good daddy.”

Erik… sort of loses the plot after that. He doesn’t know how or why, but his hand is grasping at Charles’s waist and he’s fucking him in quick, hard thrusts. Charles fucks back up against him, arms wrapping around Erik’s shoulders and pulling him down into a wet kiss, the two of them panting into each other’s mouths.

Erik can feel the pressure building, can feel himself getting close. He fumbles between them and puts his hand on Charles’s cock. Charles jerks up, tightens around Erik, and Erik rides the wave of pleasure it causes.

“Fuck,” Erik breathes out.

“You first,” Charles demands, voice catching.

Erik does. He jerks Charles off in time with the thrusts of his hips, and Charles is so hot and slick, clenching around him, that he doesn’t last long after that. With a last hard thrust, he comes, and somehow, miraculously, Charles does, too.

Totally wrung out, Erik pulls out lazily and collapses next to Charles on the bed. They lie there panting, just watching each other breathe.

“Wow,” Charles after a moment. “That was really something.”

Erik nods slowly. It was. It could have been the position or the pace, or maybe it was just because it was the first time in such a long time, but it felt special, somehow.

“We could probably go again,” Charles offers. “Dream logic, you know.”

“Give me a minute,” Erik tells him. Dream or not, he needs a breather.

Charles does give him a minute, and then another. Then abruptly, he breaks the silence.

“Would you really not mind?” he asks. “Another baby, I mean?”

Erik sighs and rolls onto his back. He stares at the ceiling and tries to piece together how he feels.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “It’s… not as easy as I thought it would be, having kids.”

“You don’t have to tell _me_ that,” Charles says. “But it’s worth it, isn’t it? Knowing how much you love them?”

Erik thinks about that. He does love David, more than he’d ever imagined being able to love another person. Charles is the center of Erik’s world, but David is… something else entirely. He’s a piece of Erik, the best part of him. 

Before Ororo, Erik hadn’t known he could feel that way twice. Even so, he’s still not quite there with Ororo. She means something special to him, and he truly believes she’s meant to be his to protect, but it’s different. He’d known before he ever met David that he was going to love him. With Ororo… it’s going to take time. But the potential is there, and Erik understands now what Charles was trying to tell him before: he can love that little girl and not love David any less.

But it’s not as simple as love, and Charles and Erik both know that. Erik still doesn’t know if there’s enough good in him to raise a child. It had been so hard with David before, and Erik had only ever seemed to cause his son pain. But when they’d touched earlier tonight, it had been different somehow… better. They’ve changed, all of them, and it doesn’t seem like a bad thing. But is it enough?

“You’re a good daddy,” Charles says again.

Erik shakes his head. That’s not true. He wants to believe it so badly, but he knows Charles is wrong about this.

“I’m _not_ wrong,” Charles tells him. He rolls over onto his side, and props himself up on his arm to look Erik in the face. “You and I have both known some pretty pathetic excuses for father-figures, so trust me when I tell you I know what bad parenting looks like. And you’re not it.”

It makes Erik angry to hear, for some reason. It must be so easy for Charles to make a judgement like that. It must be so fucking _easy_ to look down from his spot on the top of the world, everything under control, never scared about anything, and say who can be what.

Charles scowls and draws back. “What are you even talking about?”

“I’m not _talking_ at all,” Erik snaps. “You’re in my damn head. You don’t get to read my thoughts and then get offended about them.”

Charles ignores this, which is so typical of him.

“Do you think I’m not tired, Erik?” he asks, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Do you think I’m not worried about the future, about whether or not I’ve damaged our son? I am _not_ perfect, alright, and no matter what either of us would prefer to think about it, it is just as fucking hard for me as it is for you!”

Erik sits up, also, so Charles can feel the full effect of his glare.

“I doubt that,” he grits out.

“No, look,” Charles says, and reaches up to put his hands on Erik’s temples.

And then suddenly Erik can feel it. He can feel all of the emotions Charles has been keeping from him these past eight months: the worry over David’s constant crying, the anguish over Erik pulling away from him, the shame over his new and ruined body, the run-ragged bone-deep exhaustion from being the only one David would calm for, the lingering feeling of nausea, the deep abiding terror that despite everything he knows to the contrary, he’s going to end up like his mother.

These things circle around and around in Erik’s mind until Erik truly understands, for the very first time, that he is _not alone_ in this.

“I know you wanted me to be perfect,” Charles says slowly, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m sorry, Erik. I tried, but… it was hard for me, too.”

“No,” Erik says, and grabs Charles’s hands in his. “I never wanted that. I thought… maybe it was me. Maybe there was something wrong with _me_.”

“If there is something wrong, it’s with the both of us,” Charles says. He squeezes Erik’s hands. 

“Gott,” Erik says. He feels like crying again and he doesn't know why. It's like everything he's ever known about their relationship has been turned on its head, but he also thinks he must have known this all along, deep down. He doesn't know what to say. He wracks his brain, trying to figure out where they go from here.

“I… You weren't well, in those memories. Are you sick?”

Charles laughs a little helplessly. “Erik,” he says. “I'm not sick. I'm pregnant.”

Erik laughs, as well. “Already?” he teases. “I'm not the expert, but it's only been ten minutes. I think it takes longer than that, even with your superior reproductive system.”

Charles squints at him. “What?” he says. Then he catches on. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not talking about right now! The last time we did this. In New York.”

Erik scoffs and looks Charles up and down. He doesn’t know kind of game Charles is trying to play here.

“That was six months ago. Look at you, you’re not six months pregnant.”

“This is a dream, Erik,” Charles says, and his face is earnest now, eyes very serious. “I told you that. I can look however I want, do whatever I want, because it’s a dream.”

Erik is… suddenly unsure. He doesn’t see how this could be right, but he doesn’t know why Charles would lie to him about that, and he’s starting to panic internally at the idea that it might just be the truth.

“Show me,” he says.

Charles sighs, and shrugs. Then, quite suddenly, he’s different: looking harangued, for one thing, but also softer and more rounded. He looks… very definitely pregnant.

“Fuck,” Erik breathes. He coughs, then sniffs twice at the way his nose is suddenly running. His face is flushed, he can feel it. “You’re… I.”

He can’t breathe. He closes his mouth, then opens it again.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

“Do you want to feel her?”

Erik nods, lets Charles take his hand and press it to his belly. The baby inside pushes back against his touch, and Erik has to cough again.

“She knows you, Erik,” Charles says. “She knows her daddy already.”

“She?” Erik asks, heart pounding in his chest.

Charles nods.

“Oh yes. It’s a little girl.”

"A girl," Erik repeats blankly. "A little girl."

"Our Häschen," Charles tells him.

"Häschen," Erik says. He laughs, and it sounds a little bit crazy, even to his own ears. "Of course. Of course you've given her a pet name already. Gott, a _girl_! What do we know about girls?"

"Not much," Charles admits. "But children are all children, I suppose."

"Yes and what do we know about those?" Erik challenges.

Charles laughs.

“We’ll manage, darling,” he promises. “We always do.”

When Erik just stares at him, unconvinced, he adds, “We’re in a better spot now than we were before. We know what’s coming this time. We’ll be old hat at this by the time she’s born.”

Erik isn’t so sure. But the little girl is moving against his palm, it grounds him, somehow. He feels calmer suddenly – definitely still scared, but maybe less frantic. This baby girl knows him and knows she _belongs_ to him. And Erik belongs to her. He barely knows her, and yet he loves her. She’s going to be _his_.

“Here,” Charles says, “let me get more comfortable and then you can talk to her.”

He eases himself back against the headboard, and lets Erik drape across his lap. Charles waves at Erik to go ahead, but Erik looks up at him, somehow managing to be embarrassed about the whole thing. It’s been so long since they’ve done this.

“I won’t listen,” Charles says, “Promise.”

And he’s lying, of course, but it gives Erik the strength to lean close to Charles’s skin and say, “Hello, little girl. Hello, Häschen. We haven’t met yet, but I’m your daddy.”

He knows it doesn’t matter what he says, just that she learns his voice, so he tells her the first things that come to mind. He tells her about himself, about where he comes from and how he met her Papa (though he leaves out the terrible, violent bits that he hopes his children never find out). He tells her about the mobile he’ll make for above her crib, with little bunnies and carrots. He tells her about the stuffed bunny he’ll buy her, because he remembers now how much it helps to have something to hold when you’re scared. He tells her more than once that he loves her, and he knows it doesn’t matter that Charles is listening, because Charles had known that bit anyway.

Eventually, Charles puts a hand on Erik’s arm and says, “You should go. Ororo’s awake, I can feel it. She’ll be wanting you.”

Erik hates to end this moment, but he has responsibilities, and he won’t leave the other little girl in his care fend for herself, not when she’s so young and needs him.

“We’ll do this again,” he says, and he’s not asking.

“Of course, darling,” Charles says. “As soon as we can manage.”

Erik will hold him to that. And next time, maybe David will be more wakeful. Or if not, Erik will hold him while he sleeps.

“Right,” Erik says. “I… I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Charles says.

Erik blinks and when his eyes open again, he’s back the motel room with Ororo, who’s shaking like a leaf and trying to creep into his bed. Erik holds up the cover for her.

It’s not until much later, after he’s gotten the girl back to sleep, that he realizes he still hasn’t told Charles the entire truth about the Brotherhood of Mutants.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "Someone to Love the Both of Us"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100295) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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